Tease
by AbyssinianSerengeti
Summary: "I don't regret letting her run...I regret not running after her." She was different. Daring. Dangerous.  - the Mikita story, from recruit to rogue.
1. Recruit: Halo

We all live on the past,

Though the past is destroyed. – Goethe

"Nikita!" Michael called at the retreating figure of his favourite and most talented recruit. The girl turned around, now well and truly used to seeing the suited man with the bouffant and goatee. At her grin, an involuntary smile lit up his face. Quickly moulding it back into his customary scowl, he demanded, "Where do you think you're going?"

The girl rolled her eyes. "Why so protective, Michael? I'm just off to get something to eat."

"No you're not."

"Yes," she said firmly, "I am."

He smirked, "_No_, you're heading to the shooting range. You have to practice."

She frowned, walking towards him thoughtfully. Her hips swayed agonisingly slow as she swaggered over. "Practice? I think I'm pretty on top of my practice, thanks."

He peeled his eyes away from her skin-tight top and shook his head, "There's always room for improvement."

"Oh?" She cocked an eyebrow. With any other recruit he would have handed them straight over to Amanda for a system reboot. Her stubbornly folded arms and pursed lips challenged him to suggest a trip down the hall, yet both knowing that Michael would never subject _her_ to that punishment. He resented his own weakness.

"Drop the act Nikita, let's remember who's in control of who," he growled.

She shrugged, brushing her fringe out of her face with an elegant hand, complete rebellion lining every feature of her sculptured face. There was something irresistibly fascinating about her wilful flouting of authority. She was different. Daring. Dangerous.

And it drove him insane.

"What do you want, Michael?" she commanded, "I'm starving and looking forward to a sub-standard Division meal. You should really ask Percy about that, you know. How many recruits have died from salmonella?"

"We hide the records in a secret box in the annex," Michael replied sarcastically. She laughed. The sound filling him with such joy that it took much effort for him to sustain a grouch. "You know the next Op makes you an agent, Nikki."

She sniffed, " I know. And seeing that I'm _this_ close to being out of here, one would have thought you'd stop calling me _that _already. Sounds so...recruit-y."

"You _are_ a recruit. And you'd do well to remember it."

She lowered the finger nails she'd been inspecting and raised an insipid eyebrow, thoroughly unimpressed with the half-hearted threat. But before she could turn away, Michael grabbed her wrist. Suddenly unbearably close, he forced her to look up. Something of her self-assured persona wavered for a second in those unfathomable brown depths.

"You can't fail," he hissed quietly, "This is your ticket out of here."

She stared back in silence. Electricity crackled between them. Something hot that might have been his own collar, or the warmth of her body unintentionally pressed against him. Hazel into coffee. Suit alongside sweats. A stillness that was unnaturally natural, disturbed only by two shallow breaths rising and falling in unison. Piercing the hush, a tap of footsteps, a guard. Blinking into reality, Nikita wriggled out of his grip.

"Fail? God Michael, what does that even mean?"

Before he could reply, she was gone.

Remember those walls I built,  
>Well, baby they're tumbling down.<br>And they didn't even put up a fight,  
>They didn't even make up a sound.<p>

"Focus..." Michael ordered, "Another 15 blanks then we go live!"

They were in the barracks at the sniper range. Sub-level 8 was dominated by this gallery with its reinforced steel stretching down the sides. Mannequin torsos were strewn at various intervals down the two mile long stalls, all sporting bright red spots on their heads and chests.

Michael watched the varying degrees of skill before him. All the kids were at that treacherous stage between recruit and agent. Their provisionals loomed ahead, certain cancellation guaranteed unless they could successfully complete their relative assignments. With the enticing rewards of freedom and fresh air, the eight lined up behind their International AW's were aiming at targets past the 1mile mark.

"Rivers, eyes!" he yelled at one of the slower boys, the wayward bullet completely missing its aim and ricocheting off the metal wall with a discordant bang. Perhaps he should have given this one another 20 minutes before using real ammo.

Of the soon to be ex-recruits; six had decent potential, but two would be dead before the end of the month. Rivers, who was now adjusting his objective lens in embarrassment, was one of the unlucky pair. Of the gang currently assembled, Nikita was the only female. She was also the best, though he knew Amanda and Percy sometimes attributed his glowing references to bias. Though he reluctantly admitted some prejudice in her department, there was no denying that when faced with a knife at the throat, she'd escape. Somehow.

She was his greatest achievement, but ultimately, she'd had it in her blood. They'd merely embraced that untamed rage and channelled it into something vaguely civilised. Although sometimes, Michael thought with glazed sight, he imagined that when she was speaking to only him, there was something almost tender undertoning those often biting words.

"Sir!" cried one of the recruits. He jerked, stepping forward with the expectation that Rivers had shot someone. But instead, he observed a smug Nikita with her gun resting effortlessly in the crook of her arms.

Michael peered down at her shot. Amongst the beige dummies, was a bright blue one almost at the end of the room. It marked the longest ever shot fired at Division. Disbelievingly, he saw the flashing red light that indicated a shot _past _the record distance, albeit only by the length of about two hands. Nikita was beaming. After several moments, he grudgingly nodded. Rivers looked at her with eyes bulging, the others only grumbled bitterly.

"Whose record was it?" the awe-struck recruit asked after the unenthusiastic applause.

Michael hesitated, "I...can't remember. Some agent years ago. Died on a mission soon after. Goes to show that marksmanship isn't everything. Head down to the Common. Pair up and down hand to hand."

The recruits shouldered their weapons and filed away. Michael turned back to stare at the winning hit. As proud as he usually was of Nikita, is was an unpleasant feeling to see proof of her superiority right in front of him. How much longer before she started to overpower him on the mats. Hopefully she'd have graduated before he was forced to face that shameful day.

"Does this close that dreadful gap between mentor and recruit? Who controls who and all that?" she asked with a sly smile.

Michael ignored the way his mind jumped at the opportunities that presented themselves if he wasn't Percy's right hand man and she wasn't his student. He forced himself be stern, "What do you mean?"

She looked at her him through her eyelashes, "Well if I'm a better shot than you...does that mean I control you on the field? Tell you how to move...faster...slower...left, right..."

He stared at her, trying to see if she meant what he thought she meant, "What makes you think you're a better shot than me?"

Nikita tossed her head, "Oh please, we all know it was your record I broke."

"I told you marksmanship isn't the only make of a good field agent," he grunted. "Go and join the others."

She laughed lightly, "Well if I can kill them before they even get to me, where's the need to learn physical combat?"

He levelled a steely glare at her, "I'm being serious, Nikita."

"Yes, always so serious, Michael," she made a face, "Fine, I'll go. I just didn't want to get sweaty today."

I swore I'd never fall again,  
>But this don't even feel like falling.<br>Gravity can't forget,  
>To pull me back to the ground again.<p>

"Michael, Percy wants you, sir," a guard called. He steeled himself and stepped into Operations.

The boss was standing in the middle of the room, eyes hawk-like and watching the multiple screens around the perimeter of the walls. He had that grim, satisfied smile that he always wore before an Op. Michael felt a shiver of anticipation shoot through him.

"Sir?"

"The target is Vladimir Bushkenov," Percy barked, "He'll be at the The Plaza Hotel with a party of twelve. Our intel group has in booked into the royal suite, an expanse of luxury that spans an entire floor. Now, somewhere on that floor is a single hard drive containing...let's just say, 'delicate information'."

"I'll be leading the Operation?"

"Ensure there are no fatalities," said Percy turning a bold eye on Michael, "We don't want him to know that it's missing."

Michael nodded. That would mean Nikita wouldn't have to kill anyone just yet. No matter how big she talked, he knew that the fiesty recruit would not enjoy the ultimate act of murder. He recalled a striking conversation very early on in her training. Soon after she'd beaten her trainer Brutus unconscious in a fit of fury, he had sat her down and forced her to unwillingly listen to his explanation of Division. Through that conversation, he'd discovered, without her really saying anything at all, that her greatest fear – and the one thing that fuelled all that anger – was the knowledge that she was capable of killing someone. Not only capable, but that she had done it too. He had managed to convince her that training was worthwhile. That it served the country. That it could protect.

Still, he knew that despite all his lectures and all her confidence, if they didn't handle Nikita's first kill properly – there'd be hell to pay. Michael didn't look forward to the daunting task of rationalising assignment kills from another she'd committed all those months ago.

Amanda seemed to understand his relief and the stony woman on the other side of Percy caught his eye with a nod.

"I want the contents of the device to be uploaded onto this," Percy lifted a compact laptop from Birkhoff, "Then it needs to be returned to its rightful place without him being any the wiser. Understood? Good. As you know, provisionals always include a kill. So as such, this cannot be Nikita's graduating Op."

Michael nodded, "Should I take her off it?"

Percy waved his words away, "No no...this is just a training task, but _she_ doesn't need to know that. Keep her in the dark. If the recruit believes she's becoming an agent, she'll work harder. Why waste such a good incentive? No, I have something in the works just for our Nikita. It'll _really_ test her. But until then, focus on Bushkenov. Well then? Snap to it."

Back on the landing overlooking the Common, his eye was instantly drawn to a slim figure working a punch bag like there was no tomorrow. Her athletic beauty had him studying every ripple of muscle, every stretch of sinew. Every now and again, he threw a disinterested glance over the other recruits, sometimes registering dubious technique on the bowstaff or shoddy footwork in a Krav Maga session. But in due course, he'd be drawn back to the knitted brows of the girl striking the rubber sack.

In one of these moments when he would be magnetically drawn to watching her body at work, Nikita happened to pause and take a breath. Noticing him standing there, she grinned and wandered over.

"So?" she asked in between gulps of water. "I know you were with Percy."

Michael shook his head, "You never let up, do you?"

She winked, "Come on, what's the mission about?"

"You'll get the details once Amanda briefs you," he explained, "Soon. Two days, tops."

Nikita surveyed him in a strangely thorough way with her head tilted to the side, looking up at him. He squirmed under her scrutiny, unable to take the intense silence between them.

"Can I at least have a general idea?" she pleaded, bounding up the stairs until she was on equal footing. She fell into step though he refused to acknowledge her, continuing well inside the maze of tunnels that made up the recruit dorms. "Where are we going?"

"Are you up to scratch with your training?"

"I'm insulted you even had to ask...give it up Mikey, what's the big deal? Operations' been looking like Grand Central these few days."

He smirked, "Is that why you've been working the bag nearest to the window for the past week?" She gave a shifty glance sideways then melted into a smile. "You're not as smart as you think you are, Nikita."

"I resent that."

They laughed, Michael's usually severe expression disappearing in an instant. "It's at The Plaza, this Sunday."

A moment of realisation dawned on Nikita's face and she blinked at the man now standing in front of her dormitory door. He shuffled from foot to foot, expecting to see the usual triumph only to face something incomprehensible, as if there were too many emotions just under the surface, all rolled into one, for him to decipher. A sweeping look up and down the corridor and he doggedly continued.

"It's not a kill job..." he explained slowly, "It's not...I'm sorry Nikita, this won't be your provisional assignment."

Nikita lowered her eyes for a moment, consumed with both regret and relief. When she looked up again, she was smiling brightly, "So all that training was just to scare us? I need to speak to Percy about his anti-climaxes."

Michael grabbed her shoulders in alarm, "You _cannot_ tell Percy. When Amanda briefs you, act like you have no idea about it."

Nikita looked shocked as Michael pushed her roughly against her door. She attempted to break free from his tightening grip, "But why?"

He didn't reply instead searching greedily in her eyes for what he told himself was reassurance that she would play her part. "Just promise me you'll pretend. It's against protocol to...give you any information before briefing."

Nikita didn't miss a beat, "Then why did you tell me?"

He hesitated, like he'd been slapped, "I...because I trust that you'll not let me down."

She pouted, "You're no fun, you know that? You'd put your duty before anything. Is there a reason the all mighty adults want to keep me stuck down here?"

Nikita looked down at her feet, Michael's hands still wrapped around her shoulders. He watched her, biting his tongue to keep from saying things he'd regret. His throat constricted, lips pressed tightly together as the unformed words collected inside his mouth. Voiceless, he took a gentle hand and took it to her neck. Her chin lifted, she listened as he awkwardly phrased a sentiment he didn't quite seem to understand.

"Nikki...everything I seem to do with you...is wrong. At least it's supposed to feel...wrong, but...sometimes I think, it feels...better than it should," he said in earnest, "And when I let those 'sometimes'...become stronger than it's _safe_ to...let...them become – then I do things that aren't my 'duty'."

She seemed to be choking back laughter at his obvious discomfort. He scowled, jarring back into austerity. "And breaking protocol was one of those moments. That will never happen again."

Nikita opened her mouth to argue that it most certainly would happen again but froze as she noticed how close he was to her. Not just his body, she was used to the proximity from training sessions, but his face. The stubble, the lips, his breath, hot and staggered. She noticed her heart was pounding and realised he could probably feel it, leaning against her like he was.

They found they didn't really mind.

"I'm glad it's not a kill job," Nikita whispered, blinking her dark eyes into Michael's lighter ones. He noticed her bringing it back to business and slowly moved away. The rush of cold air that filled the gap instantly made him regret the action. But the friction was gone and there was no way to bring it back. With head thumping and something hot very deep inside him, Michael nodded at her and stalked off.

When he was well on the other side of Division, he collapsed back against a wall and groaned. What had he gotten himself into?

Hit me like a ray of sun,  
>Burning through my darkest night.<br>You're the only one that I want,  
>Think I'm addicted to your light.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Lyrics from 'Halo' by Beyonce. Not sure if I'll leave this as a oneshot or extend it. I just fell in love with the show and Mikita :)<strong>

**EDIT (Dec 30th 2011): Now the new edited version. 50% changed, mainly to dialogue. Enjoy!**


	2. Bushkenov 1: God Only Knows

The only way of finding a solution is to fight back.

To move, to run,

And to control that pressure. – Rafael Nadal

"You two on the north-west side," Michael grunted, nodding at three recruits, "And you on the south-east. Eyes sharp, ears tuned. If there's trouble, knock 'em out but do _not_ kill. Listen for Nikita's affirmative."

"It's all on you, bitch," muttered Carlos, catching her shoulder as he stood up. Nikita grinned, showing an unnecessary amount of teeth.

The recruits filed out into the night, the hotel's stone-walled grandeur glowing like a lantern beside Central Park. Clothed in black bodysuits, they melted away. Only the soft crunch of commando boots hinted at the presence of alien forces amongst the normal night sounds of the city. Michael watched the muted glint of their silver earpieces weave through the darkness. The sound of two tech guys running over the program with the remaining recruit brought him back to his senses.

"I have an image of Bushkenov's suite. So you have to retrieve his key card, find the briefcase, take the drive and exit the building by the park side. Return to the function room until Carlos appears with the drive again and replace it just the way it was," said one of the men, breathlessly. He was staring at Nikita's curves.

"Uhuh, copy that captain," she muttered distractedly, fumbling with the clasp of her tiny clutch.

Michael watched in amusement. The girl could cave in a man's head and yet the mechanics of a small purse were lost on her. Sighing angrily from her perch on a makeshift seat in the empty van, she noticed the look on Michael's face and pursed her lips.

"You try closing the damn thing with a gun inside," she spat.

He raised his hands in truce, "You could go in unarmed if it'd be easier."

She blinked innocently, "Would you let me?"

The tech kid looked between them questioningly. Michael frowned. "Half an hour, Nikita. Clean and quick."

She finally managed to click the clasp in place and put on an expression of great disappointment, "Aw, you know how I love to get my hands dirty."

"Sir, Rivers and Carlos have just given the all clear on the north-west perimeter," the second techie reported, flicking through satellite images at light speed. "And...ditto on the south-east."

Michael steadied his breathing and smiled grimly, "It's show time. Good luck."

She jabbed him in the stomach as she passed, "No need Michael, luck is for amateurs."

I know why you're staying there.

You want to protect the other recruits,

Like you protected me. – Maggie Q (as Nikita)

Michael sat in the van, adrenaline shooting through him as he watched the tiny figure in purple velvet mingling with the guests in The Plaza lounge. Her easy grace both complimented the aristocratic furnishings of the so named, Oak Bar. Yet there was something minimalistically stylish about her figure that put the chunky cashmere lounges and gauche wooden interiors to shame. For not the first time, he found himself in awe of Amanda's powers of transformation. Watching her take a turn around the room, all eyes following her path, he found it difficult to observe any resemblance to the enraged, damaged creature they'd left to his lot almost 12 months ago.

So engrossed in her movements, he was caught by surprise when the techie changed the screen to monitor the other recruits. His much less interesting students were sculking around the perimeters, their uniforms making them one with the shadowy alcoves and dark corners. Somehow slipping into inexistence despite the brightness of Fifth Avenue or the still constant stream of traffic.

At the bar, Nikita walked with confident purpose and sauntered by her target three times to be sure of notice. He saw her legs the first, admired her chassis the second and smirked at her cocky grin on the third. Michael gritted his teeth. He told himself that the sex worker body language was just a part of the act. Compartmentalizing all emotion, he demanded focus.

"_He's seen you, head to the bar,"_ his gruff voice filtered into Nikita's ear.

She ordered some vodka and threw Bushkenov another sidelong glance. Perhaps the eyelash fluttering was overkill. Either way, the robust Russian made a beeline and fell into easy conversation.

"What a lovely watch," she gushed. He tapped the diamond studded extravaganza with pride.

"Solid gold, silver hands and the finest diamonds in the world. Family heirloom. Three centuries of the Bushkenovs," he reeled off. Nikita delicately touched it, leaning her head towards his.

He was so preoccupied with her closeness that he didn't notice his new companion slip one hand inside his pocket and retrieve a little gold card. Back in the van, Michael let out his a breath.

"_Go to the room, Nikita, tell him you have to freshen up,"_ he ordered with a slight growl.

"Exquisite," she continued, "You take good care of it, I presume?"

Bushkenov ran a hand through her hair in satisfaction, "I'd be happy to give you a firsthand experience of my _care_..."

"_Nikita! Get the drive!"_ Michael barked.

"You are young," the Russian went on, "I'm certain you'll learn much. If you come with me – "

"_Leave NOW_!"

Nikita was just tittering some excuse when one Bushkenov guard stalked forward. "Vronin has been killed!"

"WHAT?" Bushkenov yelled, standing up with a clatter.

"_Give me images of the perimeter. I thought I said no fatalities! Rivers! Rivers, come in! What do you mean they intercepted our radio? _What_? Get me Operations! Birkhoff! I thought you said our line was secure!...Well then explain the situation – damn, Nikita!"_

Instinct told her to duck.

She leapt off the stool and into the pool of shrieking guests, grasping at the clutch. Cursing as her fingers slipped on the metal clasp, she ducked a bullet, scrambling on her knees towards the door. Bounding to her feet, she slid into the lobby, eyes darting left and right. Across the gleaming tiled floor, she scurried, the precious swipecard digging into her palm. A shriek. The receptionist fled as two new men entered the building, heaving MP7's. Darting into the nearest elevator, she pummelled the door close button, ignoring the only other man inside.

"How were we compromised?" she cried into her earpiece.

"_They hacked our line. Where are you?" _Michael's voice replied.

"I have the card, get me extraction in fifteen minutes at the service door," she said, straightening the constricting velvet around her thighs. "Think it's a bit too late to bother returning the drive now."

"_You'll be dead in fifteen! I order you to _– "

The doors pinged open and before she could move a step, the 'civilian' grabbed her arms, locking them awkwardly behind her back. The pressure on her wrists caused her to drop the clutch. The man's hot breath on her neck was quickly replaced with the cool point of a dagger.

The doors closed.

"You pretty. Bushkenov gonna have fun with you," he hissed into her ear. She berated herself for not suspecting him.

Nikita choked through the stranglehold, "I have your master's room card. Want it?"

The mercenary slackened his grip to look down at her wrists and in that moment, her stilettoed foot kicked back, catching him between the legs. He crumpled, moaning in agony. She grabbed the dagger and cut open her clutch. Retrieving the gun, a pistol whip flattened him as she hit the door open button.

Two barrels filled her sight.

She ducked, propelling herself into one man's knees, bringing him crashing to the ground. With a grunt, she flipped him in front of her. His comrade's bullets exploded into her human shield. She let the dead weight fall, launching the dagger into the shooter's chest and without turning back, sprinted for the royal suite.

"Michael!" she cried, throwing herself inside the first foyer and flicking on the lights, "Michael! Damn! Lost the signal."

Digging into her ear, she threw the useless earpiece aside and did a quick survey. Stepping forward, she noticed a private elevator and raised dubious eyebrow at the wastefulness. Despite the lavish French-renaissance designs almost screaming at her from the walls, floors and ceilings – she refused to be distracted. Time was of the essence and the seven foyers, three sleeping suites, study, two entertaining areas, pantry, library, gymnasium, walk in closet and bathrooms afforded far too many places a single small briefcase could hide.

She felt exhausted just running through the floor plan.

Frantically racing from room to room, Nikita struggled to remember what Amanda had told her. _If the treadmill is raised, check in the gap between it and the floor. Look behind boarded up fireplaces. Check for false bottoms in drawers of the master bedroom and the desk of the study. _Breathing hard, she reached behind the headboard of the king sized mattress only to find...nothing. Frustrated, she rushed back into the main living room.

Voices came from the large oval foyer. There was a rush of confused Russian. They seemed to be searching each room. Nikita swallowed panic and racked her brains for a hiding spot she hadn't yet checked.

Her eyes fell on the grand piano.

"Gotcha."

Retrieving a leather case from under its body, she ripped open the pockets and felt for any secret compartments. Zilcho. A layer of cold sweat dampened her skin.

" If that bastard has taken out the drive, it could be anywhere," she muttered angrily. Her eyes swept over the painting of a pompous fat lady in red, the chandelier and flat-screen TV. Michael would have told her to abort and get out of the building.

But as a rule, Nikita didn't like to listen very much to Michael.

Voices were so close they were now accompanied by heavy footfalls. They stopped outside her closed door.

Gripping her gun, she grabbed a black candelabra. She yanked at the door handle and jumped aside. Just as she expected, a magazine of bullets flew past the place where her head had been. The ensuing silence allowed her to register that there were two sets of breathing behind the wood of the doorway that separated her and the killers.

Three seconds passed like years but the first man's torso finally came into view and with one fluid motion, she smashed her object over his head. He crumpled to the ground and as his companion replaced him a well-timed bullet slammed him full in the chest.

Sliding back out into the public corridor, she rushed down the stairs and prayed that Bushkenov hadn't left the building. They had somehow known that the drive (or more importantly, the information on it) would be targeted. Logically, Bushkenov would have taken it out of its usual hiding place and put it in the only location that would be hardest to get to.

His body.

With an army of mercenaries protecting him, it would be suicide to attempt a grab.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered where the other recruits where but the thought was lost on her as she found herself in back in the lobby. The hotel was in lockdown mode. The flashing of police cars, the wailing of sirens and the armed officers at the three pairs of doors alerted her to another opportunity. She ducked behind a potted fern, its huge foliage hiding her form view. Peering through the leaves, she saw many of the mercenaries who had ambushed her being cuffed. So either the hotel, a civilian or Division called. But there was something off about it.

Nikita knew Division never liked to involve the authorities and any civilian would have only mentioned the men with guns. But the Lieutenant seemed to be ordering more of his men upstairs and into other rooms. They were still searching for someone. Bushkenov?

Just as she was convinced they were looking for the Russian, she _saw_ him step forward and approach the commanding officer.

Darting from her position, she opted for a corner where she would be able to hear their conversation. Kneeling down behind the enormous fish tank on one side of the room, she looked over Bushkenov's suit only to have her suspicions confirmed. There were too many places he could have concealed it.

"Sir, we can offer you any protection that you need," the Lieutenant was saying, "Is there anything else you know about the woman? Any information you could give us?"

Nikita froze. Bushkenov nodded, "Young. Olive skin. Long, dark hair. American. Very dangerous."

"And are these armed men with her?"

"Yes. They were hired to kill me," the Russian's voice shook with fake emotion.

"_Liar_," Nikita hissed, realising he'd just turned in his own men to make her threat seem greater.

Meanwhile, he would walk out of here under state protection. With the drive. Hands still squeezed around her gun, her eyes followed Bushkenov being led away, his damned watch sparkling on his wrist. She turned her back and slid down the tank's side, assessing her options. The service entrance was on the other side of the building and there was no exit where she was, crouched facing a solid wall. The closest door was behind her, with the Lieutenant standing guard in front of it.

She was trapped.

"I'd like a word," came a voice close behind her. Nikita's heart stopped. She arched her head backwards for a better look.

"Who are you? How did you get in here?" the Lieutenant yelped.

"Front door," Michael replied with a note of impatience, "My name's Stephen Ridges, I'm Vladimir Bushkenov's attorney. He's called for my presence and I was told you'd know which car he was in."

Nikita lifted herself until she could see the officer, then followed the line of his finger until he pointed to the cop car second from the front of the line parked on the curb. Michael nodded in thanks and turned towards the tank. In a split second move, he caught Nikita's eye and at the same time, seemed to mutter something under his breath. The next moment, the Lieutenant's Com Unit rattled and a voice noted a commotion on the south side of the building.

The opposite side.

Michael nodded imperceptibly and strolled out the door. As half the force were ordered away, she made her move. Slipping off her heels, Nikita leapt from her spot and whacked the commanding officer over the head. He fell to the ground without a sound. The transmitter buzzed from his belt and she whipped it out of its case.

"_I repeat, Agent do you hear me?" _came Birkhoff's voice, cutting through the static. In relief she stared out through the gold-gilded glass doors where officers stood unaware that their chief had just been knocked unconscious.

"You caused the diversion," she stated.

"_You can thank me later Nikki, Bushkenov's about to take off and Percy needs that drive,"_ came Birkhoff's voice, strangely serious.

She gulped, "How do I get to the car, there are still – oh."

Gunshots ripped through the air outside and Nikita ducked instinctively. But the bullet's were not aiming for her. The officers swivelled and focused all their attention on an unknown enemy shooting from the park trees. In realisation, Nikita bolted through the doors, sprinting behind turned backs towards her target's vehicle. The driver looked up in surprise and reached for his Com Unit.

At the same moment, Bushkenov drew his weapon.

A sniper bullet flew through the window and took out the driver, giving her just enough time to duck the Russian's shot, yank open the back passenger door and throw her second shoe at the target's head. It did no harm but as he raised an arm to deflect the pointed heel, Nikita reached forward and knocked his glock out of his hand.

Grappling with the bulky man's arms, she slapped him across the cheek and with a ferocity that Michael heard through his earpiece, demanded the flashdrive.

"I don't know what you're talking about!" the man whimpered as Nikita put the gun to his head.

"I'm not in the mood for games," she cocked the weapon and he cowered, "Now _tell me where it is_!"

Bushkenov opened his eyes with misplaced courage, "You can't shoot, only I know where it's hidden!"

Nikita grimaced, "Nice try. I know it's on you. You could be dead, I could do an easy search. Telling me would just save time."

The waver in his eyes told her she was correct.

"A girl like you?" he whispered desperately, "You wouldn't kill me."

"Don't flatter yourself."

Fear flashed across his face, "You move like the wind. I could give you a place in my guard! You would be treated well, I swear!"

She pressed the barrel harder against his temple, "Your guard? Turned in to the police to help frame me? Oh yes, treated very well...I'd rather die!"

"_Get a move on, poppet, Mikey's feeling the heat back there!"_ Birkhoff's voice crackled through the Com. _"Rivers is down and they've brought reinforcements. It's like the whole NYPD's come out."_

Her fist came up under his jaw. As Bushkenov's head slammed back, she saw the glint of a chain. Adjusting the gun so that it forced his vulnerable neck skyward, she tore the silver from his throat and grinned as the small USB fell into her palm.

The moment of triumph was cut abruptly short.

She noticed a moment too late as the metal flew towards her. The blade penetrated her hip, shooting waves of agony up her whole body. The Russian seized the moment and grabbed the handgun, pointing it at her head.

"You could have joined me," he said, finger on the trigger. She blinked.

Bushkenov's head exploded on the spot. The headless body fell forward, drenching her in warm blood. Looking around in disbelief, she gaped at Michael's twisted smile, the smoking P226 still pointed at the spot where her target had sat. A large sniper rifle was at his side.

Before she could say thanks, he revived and grabbed the dead driver, throwing him on the pavement. Dropping into the seat, he footed the gas and they sped off.

Nikita was thrown back and stared at Bushkenov's body in horror. She could feel his blood smeared across her face, distorting a vision already blurred by the tears of pain she was trying to suppress.

"_Paging Nikki, come in Nikita," _Birkhoff's voice cut through her struggle. She reached down for the Com and lifted it to her lips.

"I'm here. Bushkenov's...dead. Michael shot him. We're alive. His driving us to..." Nikita gasped, nausea threatening to overwhelm her. In the rear-view mirror, Michael watched her clutch her stomach in pain. A flutter of emotion went from his gut to his chest.

"_Did you – "_

"I'm fine!" she choked, "What about Rivers? You said he was down – you said...is everyone okay? Did you extract them? Are they – "

"_Nikita did you get the drive?_" Birkhoff interrupted firmly.

The formal demand chilled her. Lives had been lost. Her own comrades may have been killed or at the mercy of the law. She was sitting in a stolen vehicle beside the corpse of a man whose jugular was bleeding into her dress. Her own dagger wound paralysed the whole left side of her body.

And all Birkhoff wanted to know was if she had gotten the stupid drive.

She rolled down the window and retched over the side of it. Biting back tears she spat out, "Yes, nerd. If I hadn't, I wouldn't bother coming back to Percy alive."

Then wiping away Bushkenov's blood with his own suit, she threw the Com into the night.

In this silent space,

I close my eyes and I can hear you say

It's alright.

But my world's such an empty place tonight.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you sooooooooo much for all your support everyone! So Nikita wouldn't be Nikita if there wasn't action. This is the first time I've written action-y scenes so I'm SUPER nervous :S. Lyrics from "God only Knows" by Orianthi.<strong>

**EDIT (Dec 30th 2011): new edited version had 60-70% changed. Much more description and instead of using a fictional setting, I researched a real hotel! So the plaza royal suite actually has 7 foyers, 3 bedrooms etc etc (a bit much, yeah?) - and a grande piano! So I HAD to use that instead of the bed thing I had before XD North side of the hotel borders Central Park/where Michael is. South side is the extraction point/where Birkhoff sends the police.**


	3. Bushkenov 2: Need You Now

If I had to live without you,

What kind of life would that be?

"How'd it go?" Birkhoff asked, popping the top off a fresh Red Bull and looking up at the domineering figure that had just walked into Communications.

"The usual. Amanda points out the mistakes, Percy does the threatening and we all go home and get out of each other's business," Michael shrugged, peering over Birkhoff's shoulder, who seemed to be analysing a sound file.

He raised an eyebrow, "What's that?"

"Your ticket to cancellation, my good chum," said the techie. "Nikki threw away the Com Unit but your earpiece was still on air. Curious conversation you two had."

Panic dashed across Michael's usually stoic facade, "What are you talking about?"

Smirking, and with a smug sip from his can, he suggested,"Wanna take a trip down memory lane while Big Brother and the Dragon Queen are still cozy-ed up in the office?"

He thumbed a few keys until waves of lines started to dance. Michael's voice filtered through the backdrop of night traffic and rolling wheels.

_"They'll ask you why you did that," he said. "Throw away the Com."_

_"To stop the PD from tracking us," Nikita replied with an edge. "By the way, what are we going to do with Bushkenov. No offence, but he's presence in the back here is making me sick..."_

_"Division will take care of him," Michael replied, "Are you okay?"_

_"I'm fine."_

_"You don't sound fine."_

_Nikita made an impatient noise, "I have a knife embedded in my skin. Is it unusual to be pissed off?"_

_There was a moment of silence. "It's not the knife and you know it," said Michael softly._

_"You're right, it's not a knife," she countered, "it's a dagger. Silver. Signature Russian style. We should get them imported. They're good."_

_"Nikki – "_

_"Drop it, Michael," she cut in._

_Their voices were replaced by the sound of cement and the rushing of the wind. If silence could solidify, it would have been concrete in a matter of seconds. The pause was finally broken by Nikita's almost inaudible murmur of, "Are the others alive?"_

_Michael didn't reply._

_"It's my fault! If I'd just gotten out...quicker...," she cried bordering on hysteria._

_"Control yourself," Michael growled, "In this business, there's no room for that kind of mentality! Rule number one, look out for yourself and _only _yourself! It's how you survive."_

_"Is that really what you believe?" she demanded. "Really, Michael?"_

_"Yes."_

_"I don't think – "_

_"Well you should!"_

_"No!" she yelled, "I _don't_ believe! Because if you practiced what you preached, I wouldn't be sitting here! I'd be behind bars or in a body bag! If you really only cared about yourself, you'd have left with the other recruits when you could. _I_ disobeyed orders. _I_ tried to finish the mission. _You_ should have bailed."_

_"And left you alone?" Michael cried, angered._

_"Exactly, you _couldn't _have done it! 'Rule number one' wasn't going through your mind when you got Birkhoff to help, dealt with the Lieutenant, sniped the driver and blew out Bushkenov's brains!" Nikita screamed with passion._

_"What's your point? Those were necessary actions to ensure mission completion."_

_"My point is..." she faltered._

_Michael sighed, "I told you to get out. I protect my recruits."_

_"Yet now you've abandoned the others to deliver Percy's bounty."_

_ "The drive is priority – "_

_"Are you even listening to yourself?" she laughed in bitter disbelief, "Are you saying that if it was me back there you would still run off with whatever recruit had this?"_

_Michael was silent. Through the tiny microphone, his breath came out heavy. "Look, you completed the mission, performed under pressure and proved that you're worthy of being an agent. Once we get back, Amanda will brief you on your provisional and Percy will hand me your ticket out. _When _you succeed, you'll be free. You've done your job. Congratulations."_

_There was another pause. "I thought as long as I killed someone, I would graduate."_

_"Technically, your first kill will be your first _target _kill." said Michael. "I thought you had him there for a minute but then he'd turned the tables on you...so I intervened. I'm sorry – I know how much you want to get out."_

_"Is this what it's like? Being an agent? Kill and kill, no questions asked. You talk about tonight like this was just...a class exercise. Analysing it like 'Oh, this happened, then this happened, so this happened.' You're breaking down someone's last moments like the steps of a math problem..."_

_It was Michael's turn to scoff, "Excuse me...am I hearing you right? Did you _forget_ that this man just tried to kill you...Or is my _saving-your-life_ just an irrelevant detail in the big moral picture of Nikita The Righteous?"_

_"A life is a life Michael! And I'd wager that Bushkenov was only as dirty as Percy. If you want me to have perspective; how's that for perspective? And you're willing to cut down _anyone_ for him – "_

_"Percy," Michael interrupted furiously, "has _gifted _you a second chance! He's saved us from our first mistakes and given us a shot at making things right. But this time, in case we make those mistakes again, we're given the tools to get ourselves out of it. Division teaches us to fight, to think, how to talk, how to dress. To disappear. To stay alive."_

_"He also teaches us to lie, to hunt and to kill..." Nikita retorted._

_"You were on death row, recruit!"_

_The angry silence that followed seemed to drag on for aeons. Again, it was broken by Nikita._

_"Those men had dreams...hopes...families," she said, "I took that away from them!"_

_"I'm glad!" said Michael._

_"Because they're the 'enemy'? No one's even told me what's on the drive or why it's so important. I bet you'd ask me to go back and slaughter the rest of them if Percy asked you to."_

_Michael gritted his teeth, "I'd rather you eliminate even the slightest possibility of threat, the President himself, if it meant you'd continue to be here – close to..." he trailed away._

_"Michael!"_

_There was a screech of brakes and the sound of the moving vehicle came to an abrupt halt. There was the scuffle of material and then the sound of two people breathing very close together. "I would," Michael said gruffly, "I would rather a thousand faceless men died than lose you."_

_"You don't really mean that," whispered Nikita._

_"I don't say things I don't mean."_

_"You're right," came her diamond-hard voice, "Division teaches us to talk our way out of tight spots. Percy's taught you well."_

_There was another scuffle and the car started up again. After several seconds, the file cut off and looped back to the start._

Michael had a hand over his eyes and was painfully biting his lip. "Birkhoff..."

"I demand a lifetime supply of milk duds, and for you to call this baby," he grinned and patted the computer fondly, "_Shadownet_. Always."

Michael glowered, "This is serious, Birkhoff..."

Birkhoff chuckled, "Nikki's right. You _are_ always serious."

"If Amanda or Percy hears this..." Michael

"Don't I know it. Thus the milk duds for life."

"Birkhoff!"

Michael would never have thought he (Second-In-Command, top agent, trained killer), would be pleading mercy from Birkhoff (computer geek, Red Bull lover, person who came up with the stupid name 'Shadownet'). But here they were. And Birkhoff was milking it for all it was worth. The worst part was that Michael wasn't in much of a position to made demands or compromises. One click of a button and that file would appear in undesirable inboxs.

Even if they had the good grace to spare _him_, Michael knew, he wouldn't show the same benevolence to a recruit.

"Just...don't show Percy," Michael said, trying to keep the whine out of his voice.

"What's the magic word?"

"You're a bastard," Michael spat.

Birkhoff laughed merrily, "This is a once in a lifetime opportunity, pal. And I'm not one to throw it away."

Michael scowled, a step away from boxing his ears, "So you're going to hold it over my head forever."

"Or..."

"What...?"

"If you let me stick a camera in Nikki's room and you two went at it, maybe I'll consider wiping the file," Birkhoff smirked. Michael flushed.

"There is _nothing_ going on – "

"Ahem, 'I would rather a thousand faceless men died than lose you'," Birkhoff held up a hand, "Sound familiar?"

Michael folded his arms, "And how many times have you listened to that thing?"

"You don't forget lines like that in a hurry. Pure win. Do you plan those words or do they just come out _in the moment_?"

Birkhoff found his arm suddenly wrenched up behind his back. The tech guru winced, "You wouldn't do it Mikey. If they find me dead, don't you think that'd be slightly suspicious?"

"Mmm...it might be worth it if it meant I'd never have to call your stupid system that stupid name," Michael mused.

"That 'stupid' system holds your precious file and you're holding me. Let's weigh the options."

Michael laughed darkly, "Options? Well I could kill you, and press the delete button, yeah?"

"And my dead body...?"

"Would go unnoticed," Michael smirked, "You really think people care if you died?"

"Ouch," Birkhoff glared and squirmed. "Words hurt Michael, words hurt."

"Now, if you – "

"What's going on in here?" came a voice from the door. Amanda was standing there acting like she'd only just stumbled across the odd little scene. But Michael knew better, from the strange glint in her dangerous eyes he had the sinking suspicion she'd heard most of the conversation – if not the file itself.

The thought distracted him so much that he subconsciously released his ruffled captive.

He dusted himself off and tried to act like he hadn't just been manhandling a co-worker. The said co-worker took a gulp of drink and choked, spluttering all over the keyboard. Amanda rolled her eyes in mild disgust but Michael noticed that as Birkhoff busily wiped at the keys, his finger lingered slightly longer than necessary over the 'delete' button. The file disappeared.

"It's all under control, Amanda," Michael assured

She gave him a small smile, "If you say so. Percy wants you in Operations, by the way."

As she disappeared out of sight, Birkhoff sang, "You still owe me."

Michael nodded curtly, "Sure thing, nerd."

Amanda listened carefully from just outside the room as Birkhoff huffed, "You've been spending way too much time with Nikki. And let the records show that the reason I deleted that file was for her sake, not yours. My arm's gonna be sore for weeks now."

"Hope you learnt your lesson then," she heard Michael reply.

"You really care about her, don't you?"

"So do you," said Michael, "The delete was for her sake, not mine, remember?"

"Still, I wasn't the one doing the mental breakdown comforting," Birkhoff said, "I would've liked a video feed on that show. How close were you to her when you said the 'never lose you' line, again?"

"Shut up. Just get me the details on the Victor Han op."

"Why? Oh, no, let me guess. _She's_ been assigned it," Birkhoff said, "Too transparent Michael. _Too_ transparent."

Amanda had listened long enough and with the sleekness of a cat, rounded the corner towards her office in silence. Michael might be able to get around Birkhoff with relative ease but he'd have a much tougher time getting _her_ to give up this new throttlehold on him. She had his secret and she was never one to underestimate the power of emotional attachment.

No matter how foolish the attachment might be.

Guess I'd rather hurt,

Than feel nothing at all.

"Michael?" Nikita cried in surprise, panting slightly from her work on the mats. Michael kept his eyes from straying, knowing the glass of Operations was less than ten metres away.

"I have a new assignment for you," he said in complete professional mode.

She gazed at him darkly, "I thought you said that last assignment was my ticket out of here?"

Michael lowered his voice, "I've just been with Percy. He says you...need more practice."

"At killing?"

The muscles along her bare shoulders tensed. Michael admired the way her skin glistened under the layer of sweat. She sighed and was about to turn away. He grabbed her waist roughly and flipped her back around, staring intently at into her face. Through the curtain of her fringe, he saw her blink away tears. Their presence stung. The unspoken words swimming in her orbs blamed him for allowing this to happen to her.

He abruptly let her go, "You should go visit Birkhoff sometime."

A small crease appeared between her eyes, "Why?"

"To thank him...for the Bushkenov mission," Michael said, backing away.

Nikita stood in the middle of the room as Michael strode towards the lifts. The doors opened and as he turned back to face her she found herself running towards him, legs pummelling of their own accord. She threw herself into the elevator, holding the doors open with her hips. He found his arms circling around her tiny body. He could smell her scent. It overpowered him. He crushed his body against her. Moving his lips forward, he rested his forehead against her warm cheek.

Just as he tilted to enclose her smiling mouth with his own, she dodged away and pecked him on the nose. Pulling apart, she looked up, skin glowing and eyes alight.

"Thanks Michael, for the Bushkenov mission."

He let his mouth fall open, "Such a tease..."

Nikita wriggled out of his arms and laughed, "That's my line."

* * *

><p><strong>Lyrics from "How do I live without you?" by LeAnn Rimes and "Need you now" by Lady Antebellum. This is just my take on how Birkhoff and Amanda first find out. Hoped you liked the Mikita at the end :)<strong>

**EDIT (Dec 31th 2011 11:59pm): HAPPY NEW YEAR! 20% change (mainly dialogue in flashback - now off to watch fireworks XD)**


	4. Agent: California King Bed

Chest to chest,  
>Nose to nose,<br>Palm to palm.  
>We were always just that close.<p>

OCTOBER 2005

"These aren't very 'you'."

Nikita spun around, hearting thumping until she realised it was Michael. Relaxing her grip on the gun hidden in her panty drawer, she glared at him.

"You didn't knock."

He was inspecting a pair of bright yellow flats with some distaste. Looking up, he caught her eye and flashed the ghost of a half-smile, dangling a pair of keys to her apartment. About to open her mouth to protest – privacy, security and all that – she noticed Michael's eyes on her open drawer. It had been stocked with Amanda's mark all over them: expensive and colour coordinated with lots of satin, silk and lacy bits. He tipped his head in amusement. All thoughts of the keys vanished as Nikita went very warm.

"Michael, why are you here?" she asked wearily.

"To give you this," he said, taking a platinum credit card from his wallet. She pushed the drawer closed with her thigh, eyeing the prize with interest. Michael paused, then after a beat, "And to say...sorry."

She grinned in astonishment, "Oh so you _do_ know that word."

He grimaced, "Don't push your luck."

"I didn't realise it was luck, I thought it was curtesy."

Michael gave a low laugh, "Alright," he surreptitiously put the card away, "I warned you not to push it."

Her eyes widened, "Hey gimme that!"

Pouncing, she kicked off the furniture and tackled him, whipping the wallet from his hands. They landed with a thud on the bed. Nikita struggled to slide the card from its sleeve. Thus distracted, she couldn't stop Michael from grabbing her shoulders and flipping them over. Finding herself on her back, Michael in the position of power easily reached for the card between her fingertips and placed it in his mouth. With both hands firmly pressing her down, he was about to sit up when she wrapped her legs around his waist, locking her ankles behind his back.

He collapsed onto her.

Trying hard not to notice the feel of his body, she closed her eyes , breathing haggardly. Less from exertion and more from...something else. Keeping the pressure around his mid-section tight, she held him in place, their faces only inches apart. Half heartedly trying to move away, Michael was pushed onto his back as she straddled his stomach.

Her hands had his wrists pinned down and with the slow, calculating moves of a predator, bent her head towards him. Hair falling around both their faces, with a lick of her lips, she clamped her teeth around the card and slid it out of his mouth.

"This is it?" she said, still sitting on his chest, inspecting the card. "So it's what, my monthly allowance?"

"Don't buy anything too big," he said.

She looked down on him with an smile smile, noticing that despite having let go of his arms, he hadn't tried to shake her off. "Aw, and here I was so thrilled to finally afford my dream yacht."

He laughed, subconsciously pulling her down beside him. They lay there, a companionable silence enveloping the room in a light, fluffy down-like material. Fingers moved of their own accord through her hair, sending shivers of something pleasant shooting all over her skin. She stared up at the ceiling, an unfamiliar happiness sweeping through her system. She wanted to giggle, or was that just the bubbly feeling breaking out in her gut? She wanted to close her eyes and fall asleep, knowing that she'd have him by her side. So warm and solid.

Finding her head inching closer and closer to him, she inhaled the smell of coffee and pungent cologne. There was the metallic scent of weaponry, and after shave, too, was thrown into the mix. He seemed to realise she intended to use his chest as a pillow. A light touch to her lower back and the last inches disappeared. Arm wrapping around her without need for consent, he placed tentative lips to her the top of her head.

She looked up, the white-washed room, its crystal chandelier and the patterned sunlight it streaked making her almost angelic. So perfect.

"Nikita...sorry."

Her smile widened. A tiny spark of triumph found its way into the vision of innocence. A tiny bit of the devil in the saint. "Say that again, I couldn't hear..."

Instead of indulging her, she found him suddenly very close. Closer than they already were. Eyelashes fluttering closed, she could feel his nose gently brushing hers. Stretching up, she tangled her hands into his coif. Lips _almost_ there.

Almost.

"Michael."

Nikita leapt off him. Guilt and shame and disappointment all rushing through her as she watched him sit up and hold the phone to his ear. She turned away, controlling her breath, refusing to allow herself to sigh. Of all times, why did someone have to call him then? Why _then_? Just when things were starting to get better...

How come when I reach my fingers,

It feels like more than distance between us?

SEPTEMBER 2005

Michael had his sights zoned in on the road ahead. He was trying very hard to ignore the presence of the woman beside him. After the Victor Han assignment, or more specifically, the conversation in Nikita's room – they'd both been very cold. So cold that Amanda had even complimented him on his 'distance'. He had a feeling that it was the only reason she'd allowed Percy to promote Nikita to field agent.

Finally stopping the car in front of a handsome modern apartment block and cutting the engine, he turned in his seat to stare at his stony-faced passenger.

"Nikita..."

"Michael..." she replied in the same tone, arms still folded and face still blank.

He watched her sit stubbornly for several more moments before stepping out, slamming the door shut with just enough force to convey his continued displeasure. Eventually, she looked up with a glower. As Nikita craned her neck to take in the expanse of glass panelling, he took the opportunity to stride several steps ahead, leaving her sitting in the vehicle. Hurt at this callousness, she watched him stepped into the mass of suited bodies taking their lunch break with a scowl.

"Fine," she muttered, "If you wanna play Michael, let's play."

A vindictive smirk spread across her features at having kept him waiting. But all her resentment evaporated as the sheer size of the conceirge hall descended upon her. Huge black marble columns stretched in two parallel lines down the length of the lobby. Between the runway made by these posts, square fountains spilled their fluro blue and green illuminated waters over the tops of stone sculptures jutting out from their centres: carved bonsai trees with their knarled branches, the coloured liquid flowing over its leaves in a sort of twisted beauty, giant pythons, two lovers entwined in limestone and malachite. The floor was one large sheet of glass, fairy lights sending their glow up from the ground. Falling from the ceiling, cubic zirconia shards seemed suspended like frozen tear drops, a canopy of stars above her head.

Chaise lounges in the shape of logs, accessorised by cushions sequined with ferns and vines, formed little groups in the recesses of the pillars. Circular tables with crystal legs had atop them ashtrays and drinking glasses in the shape of blooming flowers, opening their bulbs to the night sky. Alcohol could be purchased at a crescent moon granite counter, the full bar waitered by a young man with a checkered bow tie.

"Wow...do I get free dental too?" Nikita murmured walking down the hallway towards an oval atrium where sixteen glass doored elevators awaited orders.

In the silence of the room, she clearly heard the tapping of Michael's polished shoes. Whipping around, she saw his hands in pockets, a woman beside him wearing a smart dress suit, donned with the same bow tie as the barista. Once on the fifty-second floor, the woman left them with a knowing smile. Nikita inwardly scoffed at the idea that they were what the lady thought they were. Still refusing eye contact with her equally immovable handler, she twisted the key and once again, found herself in a strange nirvana.

Immediately greeted with the smell of scented candles and new leather, she stepped gingerly into the foyer. A large post-modern painting hung on the opposite wall. Looking vaguely like blood splatter, she told herself to remove this eerie reminder of her day job. A small stuffed bear caused her eyebrows to lift and stepping into a study, she was greeted by a large wall sized bookshelf with velour-bound volumes of Crime and Punishment, Les Miserables and The Catcher in the Rye.

Michael watched her from the doorway, still bitter, but seeing her walk around her new loft with childlike curiosity, a nudge of shame forced him to grudgingly admit that she hadn't actually done anything _wrong_, per se.

"_You'd follow him off a cliff, wouldn't you?"_

Following her into the living room, they both took in the two walls made of floor to ceiling glass. A million dollar view over the entire city turned people and cars into plastic figurines in a child's play world. Spotless stainless steel appliances and quartzite bench tops in the kitchen contrasted with the white fur rugs and fluffy cushions. Opposite the giant window, a pair of silver Japanese katana glimmered. Their hilts were ornate, one with a green dragon, the other red. Picking up a remote control, Michael aimed it at the extravagant display

As expected, the swords started to rotate on the mounts until they were parallel and facing up. Then the wooden board seemed to lift out from the wall, before splitting down the middle through an invisible fracture, the two pieces now drifting sideways only to reveal a large plasma screen television.

Impressed, however unwillingly, Nikita walked over and stroked a blade down its length. It was real. And she would hardly have thought Division would do any less. Still, the interiors were so blatantly symbolic that she thought it almost likely that there would be a mural of bullets in the bathroom.

"Who chose this place?" she demanded, slightly more aggressive than necessary.

"I did."

"Any reason this building in particular?"

He made a movement in between a shrug and a nod, "You always complained that there were no windows at Division."

Nikita looked outside, the evening sky turning gradually golden in hue, "Yeah...why is that?"

"To stop people asking questions about what's going on inside," he said, "Keep them out."

"Or keep us in," she interjected, "Depends how you look at it really...Where does Division get all this money anyway. I can't imagine a place like this would be cheap."

Michael frowned at her tone, "We manage."

"How long have you been working for Percy?"

Again, he hesitated, "Long enough to know when not to ask questions."

"_Why are you so loyal to Percy, Michael? WHY?"_

A heightened awareness of their last conversation rushed back to both. Neither were willing to apologise. Neither willing to back down. To keep from letting the awkwardness get to her, Nikita walked over the the window. She wished they could be opened somehow. It'd been so long since she'd felt a strong breeze. And right now, she needed one to blow unwelcome thoughts away. Thoughts that made her feel accountable, somehow, for the coldness that Michael was showing her.

"Look Michael..."

"Forget it," he said shortly. "I'll be leaving the car with you. Come in when you're called."

"Wait!"

He did so accordingly. She looked at the expanse of luxury around her, "What do I do with this place?"

"Well...it's home."

She grimaced, "Sorry, I don't know the meaning of that word, remember?"

"You do what you want, when you want," he answered, turning away again.

She wished he'd continued staying silent.

So confused wanna ask you if you love me,  
>But I don't wanna seem so weak.<p>

Walking back into Division felt like locking herself back into a jail of her own making. What made it worse was that it was voluntary. Mostly, she needed the training equipment (just the knowledge that she _needed_ Division in any way made her slightly nauseous) but some tiny, inconvenient part was also clinging onto the hope that she would catch sight of a very familiar profile.

Michael may as well have fallen off the end of the earth for all she knew. A year of snide comments, sideway smirks and physical battles had left her taking his presence for granted. Now she'd been pulled from his side – both by her graduation and her own doing. There was a void he'd left gaping that she found unable to fill though she'd had more than a fortnight to try.

Finding the Common almost empty, she jumped on a treadmill and punched in a punishing incline at a punishing rate. Punishment, that's what she needed. As the machinery rumbled into action, she trained her eyes ahead, slowly feeling the familiar burn spread through her muscles, sweat starting to drip from her brow. Every step, every pull, every strain was a punch, a slap, a kick at herself. Through it all, she bored into the glass of Operations, as if she knew the very person she needed to see was standing behind it. Watching her.

In this California king bed,

We're ten thousand miles apart.

Michael watched Nikita torture herself past the hour. She hadn't warmed up. She hadn't taken a stip of water during that whole time. It was dangerous to the point of stupidity. He watched her complexion redden, her shoulders slump with effort, her breathing become more and more laboured. And yet her pace didn't slow, her rhythm didn't falter. Her eyes didn't stop staring at him.

He knew she couldn't see through the glass at that distance. Yet it felt like she saw everything.

After awhile, Michael was drawn to the raw mark on the skin just above her hip. A faded jagged line had become the permanent record of Bushkenov's dagger wound. Just beside it, a smaller but fresher scar indicated the place where her new tracker had been lodged. Then for the first time, it really hit him. Nikita was an agent. His Nikki had become an _agent_. He wouldn't see her very much, wouldn't work with her very much. Wouldn't interact at all outside of professional boundaries. There'd be no more improvised rendez-vous' in the hallways, no more hugs or laughs or glances full of meaning.

He gritted his teeth. In that moment, Michael realised that unless he initiated it, they'd never have any contact again. She, a new agent, thrown out into the world, one of many who had and would graduate that year – could hardly stroll into Operations and demand his presence. No, it had to be vice versa.

If he didn't want to lose it all, it had to be vice versa.

I've been California wishing on these stars,  
>For your heart for me.<p>

NOVEMBER 2005

"Nikita, what did you do to this place?" Michael cried, storming into her apartment and yelling over the music that was pumping through the walls, "NIKITA!"

There was no reply. Pulling out his gun, he quietly edged through the entrance hallway though a part of him knew there was no way his footsteps could have been heard. The Jackson Polluck painting had disappeared, as had the growling bear. By the time study came into sight he was sure he'd stepped into the wrong person's home.

Instead of the leather sofa, granite coffee table, fur rugs, velvet lamp shades and that memorable white bookshelf; there was a huge square fold-up table. Other than a laptop connected to a charger, it was perfectly clear of all objects. The walls were bare, the floor was bare.

It was then that Michael noticed that the laptop was sitting on top of a thin A3 sized journal. He quickly retrieved it and flipped through. Inside, there were names and addresses as well as the usual expected information scribbled in shorthand. There were diagrams too. They ranged from scrawled doodles to intricate cross sections.

It was the subject of them all that bothered him.

They were seemingly average objects and yet in Nikita's sketches, she'd designed them so that they each served another purpose. A tube of lipstick hid a flash drive, a small make up mirror contained a compartment for explosives and hair clips and brooches became audio transmitters. The technology inside most of them was miniscule and complex.

The whole thing confused him.

"Michael?" roared a voice and he swung the gun around until it was pointing straight at Nikita's head. She looked at him quizzically and then rolled her eyes.

He followed in bewilderment as she went to turn off the music, the journal still in his hand.

The first thing he noticed was that she was wearing a black sports bra, black bike shorts and had training tape wrapped around her knuckles. The second thing he noticed was that the main room had been cleared of all furniture.

"What have you done to this place?" he muttered, doing a quick 360 with his mouth half-open.

She smiled proudly, "I redecorated." Hands on hips, she strode across to the glass wall and looked out, "The view was so nice, I had to make this my training space."

He wandered over to the boxing bag, the treadmill beside it and the bench press with its weights. "Other agents train at Division," he said.

Nikita turned around with a small smile, "I don't want to be like other agents." After the evening on the treadmill, Nikita had made it her new project to ensure her apartment was so well equiped that she wouldn't need Division facilities anymore. After Michael's apology, she had even less reason to return to the site of her imprisonment.

"I can see that," he replied, holding up the journal, "What's this?"

Her gaze lingered on it a while too long and Michael knew there was trouble. Biting his lip, he walked up to her and waved the book in front of her face, "Who are these names? Pictures of explosives, tracking devices, secret compartments inside Bibles? It's been two months and – "

"It's not how it looks..."

"Then explain, because if anyone finds this..." he left off threateningly.

She looked away, "It's Birkhoff."

Michael froze, "What?"

"Percy's playing one of his mind games," she explained, "Saying that unless he comes up with some...revolutionary idea, he'll be cancelled. Said that they were 'making cuts'."

"And this affects you how..?"

"Birkhoff's been given three weeks and he's asked for my help."

Michael huffed, "You were the one who once told me you didn't know how to hack a Bluetooth. Why would Birkhoff ask you?"

Nikita crossed her arms defiantly, "Because I'm the one who first came up with the idea of a shell program."

"A shell program? What's – you know what, I don't want to know," Michael conceded, "But what I _do_ want to know is why you haven't been picking up your phone for the last two hours."

Nikita narrowed her eyes then looked like she'd been slapped. "Damn, must be on silent." She rushed to a leather jacket that was thrown on the floor. Reaching inside the pockets she made a face, "Fifteen missed calls...great. What's up?"

"A mission. Remember those?" Michael asked, tossing aside the journal.

"No need for the attitude," she grumbled, rushing into the bedroom.

Michael instinctively followed and instantly regretted it. She'd run to the wardrobe and pulled it open. It seemed she'd made some fashion changes as well. The fluoro coloured shoes were nowhere to be seen. But before he could ponder any longer, his eyes were dragged to her body. She'd pulled off her top and was riffling through the clothes half naked. Quickly averting his eyes as the blood rushed to his face, he noticed a large black case beside the bed. It was open.

"Nikita..." he said, walking slowly towards the object. He bent down and brushed his fingers across one of the beautifully kept firearms lying in its foam protection.

She came up behind him, "What do you think?"

"It's..." he muttered, staring at the two-toned barrels, signature engravings and flashy accessories.

"Love at first sight?" she joked. He looked at her, fully clothed in a white top and tight pants. She was quick, he had to give her that.

"It's expensive," he disagreed. "I can't imagine Percy sanctioning these purchases?"

Nikita nodded, whipping her hair back into a tight ponytail, "I paid in instalments."

"From who?"

She winked, "The dealers. Come on, I have an Op to get briefed on."

Michael slowly rose to his feet, "I can't help getting the feeling you're up to something. The secret training, the journal, the phone on silent...and the case full of SIG-Sauer's, Heckler's, Beretta's and a Remington 700 PSS sniper rifle?"

She looked him up and down, and with a sweep of her lashes, chuckled, "Wouldn't you like to know."

Heading for the door, Michael wouldn't allow that for an answer. "Hey," he grabbed her arm, pulling her around, "What's really going on?"

They were close again, he could feel the fringes of her breath tickle his face. He searched for something in her eyes. She blinked back in surprise at the genuine care he was showing her. Whispering his name, she lifted a hand up to his scruff covered face.

"You know you can tell me if there's any problem," he assured her, frowning seriously. She smoothed out his brow with soft fingers. "If anyone's threatening you...or...or."

"Michael," she cooed, "Everything's A-OK. I know it's a bad world. I'm a big girl...It's waste or get wasted out there."

Michael smiled sadly, "Gold star."

Just when I felt like giving up on us,

You turned around and gave me one last touch.

* * *

><p><strong>Lyrics from "California King" by Rihanna. Set after Victor Han, where Mikita have that tense conversation about why Michael's loyal to Division. As you can see, 'our girl' is already making plans to get out ;)<strong>

**EDIT (Jan 3rd 2012): This is probably 90% changed. Major changes to...everything. This was basically a COMPLETE rewrite. Nikita's apartment is completely reimagined (which was a lot of fun to do - I call it my little slice of Eden in NYC). New Division bits added. Times added. And I slowed things down. The first version had them go from "omg, victor han incident, I'm not talking to you" straight to "I wanna do you" in about 3 paragraphs.**

**Points of interest: **the blood splatter painting is based off Jackson Polluck's Untitled Red Paintings 1-7, Crime and Punishment is about a man who kills in a moment of anger and then pays for it for the rest of his life (Nikita's police kill = Division slavery forever), Les Miserables is about main characters Cosette, an orphan girl who was abused, and a man Valjean, who spends his life looking for redemption (Nikita childhood and rogue days) and Catcher in the Rye is about a boy who doesn't fit in, is incredibly angsty and filled with sexual frustration (Nikita...well you get my drift).


	5. Upgrades

Change always comes bearing gifts. -Price Pritchett

DECEMBER 2005

Division didn't exactly give its members Christmas leave in lieu of how tactically brilliant it was to ambush targets during the festive season. So Michael wasn't particularly surprised when he got the call to come in on Yuletide Eve. When you were in your late twenties, alone and working for a black Op's organization – the day didn't really have much meaning anyhow. He stood outside Percy's office, swipe card ready. But instead of waltzing right in, to his great dismay, found himself knocking like a Boy Scout selling candy. The boss pulled open the door with an amused grin.

"Ah, I see you've noticed the upgrade," Percy said pointing to the contraption on the wall. It was a finger-activated automatic lock. Michael turned the useless card around his fingers, feeling somehow left out. "The latest technology and only four people will have access to it."

He was ushered inside and asked to take a seat. Percy had an air of happiness about him and the chief wasn't someone who could often be described as 'happy'. The detail was worrying.

"You can never underestimate good security procedure," he preached, heavily depositing himself into a large leather chair. Leaning across the table intently, "I never got to congratulate you on Operation Rose."

"Oh well...all part of the job," Michael replied bashfully.

Percy nodded, eyeing his soldier carefully, "I'm bringing you up to clearance level six, Michael. You and Nikita make a good team."

Michael's head popped up and he returned the stinging glare with equal force, "I know."

Percy grinned, "Lethal. You'll be the best operatives Division, or the _world_, has ever seen. That's if Amanda can fine tune her up just a little bit. We don't want her getting _too_ comfortable with her cover, now do we?"

"Comfortable?" Michael asked carefully.

Percy smiled mysteriously. Michael changed tactics, "Why did you want me sir?"

"To ask you to find Birkhoff," he clapped his hands, "Putting your prints on the database is just the beginning. You'll see."

As network administrator,

I can take down the network with one keystroke.

It's just like being a doctor,

But without getting gooky stuff on my paws. -Scott Adams

Michael eventually ran across Birkhoff in one of the large holding cells on Sub-level five. The usually barren space was filled with technical gear and wires. A tremendous amount of buzzing, flashing and beeping gave the unpleasant sensation of standing in a futuristic space station, completely disorientated. Birkhoff on the other hand, was rushing around like Queen Bee, beaming from ear to ear.

"Mikey, my man!" his arms opened, coming forward in a bear hug. He was promptly shrugged off.

"What is this place?"

"Room B305, my brother, home the work space for my pride and joy. Or should I say, _ex_-home." he gestured proudly, "Because me and my babies are getting a promotion! We're moving up to the surface."

"The surface?"

"Percy's Office, Operations, Ammunitions, Logistics, even Medical," Birkhoff grinned. "Sweet, huh?"

Michael backtracked, "Wait, wait, wait...are you talking about that geek program of yours?"

"_Shadownet_," Birkhoff breathed dramatically.

"I thought that was just on one computer in Comm?"

Birkhoff laughed airily, "Are you kidding? I've been putting together this beauty ever since I got here. And Percy's finally come down for a look. I think he likes it."

"So this is what you got Nikita to help you on?" Michael asked, gingerly touching a hard drive.

Birkhoff scrunched up his face, "Nikki? Dude...I know she seems like some _goddess_ to you but newsflash, she _sucks_ at my kind of stuff. Calls it 'techno babble'. Girl can slit a guy's throat with her hands tied, but it took her three weeks to learn how to hack a Bluetooth. I mean, come on! Three whole weeks..."

Michael looked at him suspiciously, "She told me she was helping you."

He guffawed, then realised Michael was being serious, "Jealous?"

Michael didn't fall for the bait, he just stared at some ticking device with suspicion. A memory of Nikita's journal, full of sketches, jumped to mind. So she'd lied...?

"Alright, Romeo, get over here. I need a retina scan, fingerprints, blood sample and voice-o-graph," he said. "Oh, and I'm supposed to tell you about Operation Lily."

"First Rose, now Lily?," Michael commented, walking towards a strange looking hooked apparatus that he didn't feel particularly comfortable sticking his eye into.

"I know, only He would succeed in making me associate flowers with the pow-pow kabushka."

"By the way. _He_ mentioned that only four people would have access to his office. Just out of interest, who are they?"

Birkhoff smiled smugly, "The Almighty Shadow Walker, me. You, Teacher's Pet. Amanda, the Bitch Lovechild and – "

"Amanda what?" Michael cried, lasers now painfully shining into his eyes.

"See, I've got this theory. The reason Amanda is so loyal to Percy is because she's his _daughter_."

"That's sick."

Birkhoff adjusted the height, "Eh, at first I thought lover. But then...she's too young. And he's too..."

"Uptight?"

"Prude-ish?" Birkhoff suggested, "I mean, can you imagine Percy as a hot-blooded teen. Bursting with hormones and picking up girls? That's like...as unlikely as – "

"Amanda being his child," Michael put in as the scan was completed, "Yeah."

He was handed a thin metal slab and told to place each of his fingers on it in turn. Birkhoff stood gazing at the place in self satisfied awe. Michael rolled his eyes. With this promotion, the Nerd would never get over himself.

"Hey guys," came a voice from the door, "That was honestly the most disturbing conversation I've heard all month...or year."

"Yo!" Birkhoff cried in glee, "Just in time to watch Michael get a blood test."

Nikita raised an eyebrow, "Why?"

"For Medical," said Birkhoff, disinfecting a grumpy looking Michael with a swab, "Percy's turning it into a fortress. He's scrapping the swipe cards and putting in blood ID's, voice operated computer databases and other trippy things. It's to protect tracker info."

"Wow. And I thought it was already a fortress," she said, running her fingers down the length of a small handgun, "That's cute."

"That's an Automatic AMT Backup – we call it 'The Baby'," Michael winced, as Birkhoff jammed in the needle, "I thought your taste was more expensive. And bigger."

She shrugged a shoulder, "I'd prefer it with a stainless steel finish. The black is kind of dreary. Anyway, its dinnertime and I'm hungry. Percy told me to see you?"

"Ah right, Op Lily," he replied, moving Michael to a huge machine with a small microphone, "Say the alphabet into that, 'kay champ?"

"Don't patronise me," Michael snapped back.

Nikita smothered a laugh. Birkhoff winked at her, "It's in St. Petersburg, Russia. Your goal is to retrieve a sim card. It's not a kill Op, it's a seduction target. A solo."

"Okay," Nikita said just as Michael stopped reciting the alphabet with, "Seduction...? Is that...safe?"

She stared at him, "At least it's not a kill job."

"Yeah, that's what they said about the Bushkenov Mission," he saw Nikita's face crumple, "Sorry. I didn't mean to bring you back there. Look, I'm just saying, Seymour, why isn't Percy putting me on this?"

"I can take care of myself, Michael," Nikita insisted as Birkhoff pulled the corners of his mouth down into a fake frown, "It's always trouble when you call me 'Seymour'." Michael gave him a warning glance. "It's because you'll be in surgery."

"Huh?"

"Nikki was one of the few implanted with the new chip. One I came up with actually. Unlike yours, Mike, it's satellite run so Division can track her wherever she is in the world. Totally mind blowing technology," Birkhoff explained, "All the older agents are either going under the knife or..._being_ knifed. Ha. Anyone else smelling the whiff of change?"

"But what did Division do with overseas agents before?" Nikita asked.

"Placed the Fear of Percy in them. Pretty effective I thought, but maybe the Old Man's getting paranoid."

"Of what?"

"Of agents making a run for it. Or double crossing him. Or, I dunno, something's got him _on edge_. Anyway, Lily is a one-man, standard protocol seduc."

"Then why did he want you to tell us together? And isn't it usually Amanda's job?" she continued to probe.

Birkhoff looked between the three of them and sucked in his cheeks for a second. Then, turning back to his machines, he said, "Maybe he wants to send us a message."

A power that is big enough to give you all you want,

Is big enough to take it all away. -Barry Goldwater

Michael was walking down the empty hallway, the recruits being in the Common for dinner. Nikita followed step silently beside him, looking tired and rather severe. He wanted her to talk, but didn't know how to start that kind of conversation. When they had been mentor and recruit, he knew he could just fire a command, which would usually result in some spitfire remarks and a few laughs. If she was being difficult, a firm hand and a light threat proved enough on most occasions. And when things got awkward he could always send her away to training or the computer lab. But now, as they were practically equal, he just didn't know where to start. Not in Division at least, not from the relative safety that her apartment now offered the two of them.

To his relief, it was her who broke the silence, "One question."

"Fire away."

"What did Birkhoff mean by 'he wants to send us a message'?" she asked, forehead creased.

Michael shrugged, "It's just one of Division's many tests, I guess. Reminding us that at any moment he could relocate us...not to get too dependent."

"But the last mission was a success, right?"

"It was," the memory brought a smile to his face. With the ever droll witicisms of Birkhoff directing them through their earpieces, she'd saved him from killing anyone, and he'd saved her from being killed. 'Co-dependent relationship', she'd called it.

They stayed awhile in companionable silence.

"Well I'm glad I can get away, for a few days, at least."

This brought Michael back to the issue that was bothering him. He told himself that he was unhappy with her going alone, not because she might get hurt, but because seduction targets outside of the US usually had on the ground backup in case of any difficulties. Unless it was a suicide Op, which was beyond unlikely. Even if Percy was a little sharp with her, she was too valuable an asset to dispose of. And it was hardly Percy's style to combine a suicide with a _seduction_...he hoped.

It was Rivers who had been given the suicide in Nikita's group. His injury during Bushkenov had been proof enough of his inadequacies. After Operation Superdollar, Carlos had been cancelled for what Percy called 'obstruction'. It basically meant he was too aggressive of an agent to work well in a group, but not skilled enough to do anything else. Amanda had smirked when the orders were given. Another had been demoted to guard status while three had died on a low-key overseas mission that should never have gone awry.

Of his eight graduates, only Stephen and Nikki were still with him. Strangely, they were very different agents. Stephen was solid, reliable and completely focused on Division's mission. Nikita on the other hand, was volatile, constantly asking qufestions that he didn't have the answers to, easily angered, impatient and impertinent. But fast. Whereas Stephen had immense physical strength, Nikita, though by no means weak, had the great advantage of speed. Though he was a handsome, but not spectacular, young man – she was stunning, exotic, an eyeturner. He was confident, she was arrogant. He was skilled, she was gifted. He was an average Division agent.

She wasn't.

That was probably where all the friction had come from. Their only shared trait was an innate competitiveness that the training program had only heightened. He guessed that as a man, Stephen had even more reason to try and top his cocky comrade. Michael had forgetten how many times he'd tried to out run her or out shoot her, to beat the records she was constantly setting or overpower her on the mats. But all his soliderly form and dedication was nothing to her.

Still, Michael worried about Op Lily. He knew she was capable, he knew she could handle herself. Yet there had to be a reason Percy was sending her out on the field alone. His surgery seemed too much of a coincidence. Maybe Birkhoff was right. Maybe this was a warning.

Who cared if he, Nikki and the Nerd were the best trio since The Stooges. If Percy wanted to play puppeteer and yank them apart, no one could stop him.

"Michael," Nikita cooed, brushing her hands down his shoulders. She looked intently into his eyes and he somehow found himself backed against the wall. "Don't sweat it. I'll be fine."

"Let me help you prep," he said, taking her fingers and squeezing them.

She slipped out of his hold and walked on, "It's just a seduction target. Easy peasy, what could possibly go wrong?"

"Don't jinx it," he joked. She looked back at him fondly. Michael told himself 'fond' was all he wanted. "When is it? We should get training ASAP." He attempted to sound all-business, "Can I stop by your place?"

Nikita looked at him and he nearly blushed through the act. With a soft sigh and a pucker of her lips she replied, "Why aren't I ever allowed over at yours?"

His heart leapt into his mouth, "Compromise? We'll do halfway."

She half smiled, half frowned, "What do you mean?"

"Let me take you to dinner," he said roughly. "Just to...go over some strength regimes, talk diet, run through protocol."

"Oh _protocol_," she said with a wide smile. He cleared his throat and looked anywhere but her. In the sterile cleanliness of Division, they seemed out of place. Unsanctioned. Forbidden. Glorious.

He rolled his eyes, "I thought you said you were hungry."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Here Birkhoff 'officially' becomes the head tech ;) Gotta love the Nerd. I really try to keep everything as true to the series as possible. So just to explain some things so far.**

**EDIT (Jan 4th 2012): 20% changed, mainly to Birkhoff dialogue. First change is Roan, originally I had him as part of Nikki graduation group but then I realised that he's much older (probs older than Michael) so I cut that bit. Second change, I added Michael comparing Stephen and Nikki. The reason is because I just rewatched **_**Coup de Grace**_** and I wanted to explain Stephen's half-crazed need to catch Nikita - though he knows it's completely against his training. Third change is the timing. Originally I made Nikki be recruited in 2003 because Percy says that the Victor Han Op is "two years after 9/11" but on Nikita's fake tombstone, it says she died on Sep 3rd 2004 so she couldn't have been recruited and trained before then. So I moved everything forward a year to 05. Soooo...according to the new times: Nikki was born in 1983-4, recruited at 20-21yo **(TV script incontinuity: in S1, Nikita's ID card in Operations says she was born in 83. In S2, during the father episode, it says she was born 84 - Yes, I know, I should get a life. Shut up.)** Michael I'm guessing was around 27-28yo in this chap. And when S1 starts, late 2010 (since **_**Coup de Grace**_** was Feb 2011), he's 32-33yo, while she's 26-27yo.**


	6. Terrors: Dreaming With A Broken Heart

When you're dreaming with a broken heart,  
>Waking up is the hardest part.<p>

"Nikita, the man is gay," he said with a slightly pained expression that came from swallowing too much laughter.

She pouted, "_So?_"

He looked down and chuckled, secretly agreeing with her. Only a blind person would be able to resist her charms, and even then they'd probably still be able to smell her intoxicating scent. Mixed in with the burning from the crackling fire and the smell of high-end alcohol, it was like an earthy, rich sort of drug. He was hooked and every hit made him beg for more.

"You know what, you're right," she teased, "You're an excellent honey trap."

He chuckled, not sure if she was being sarcastic. Looking into her face, trying to work out if she was taking the Mickey out of him, he felt a small tug at his hands, still holding onto hers. He noticed how close they were, noses almost touching. She lowered her eyes and instinctively, he closed the tiny gap between them.

She was soft, sensuous, slow.

He wanted her. All of her.

Burning for more, he pulled back her head, pleading for entrance. She continued on the painfully delicate path she'd chosen and suddenly he had her on her back. He was on top of her, grasping her face. Battling for control. Her fingers were at his neck, fumbling through the buttons, slipping on the cloth.

She gasped, sucking in oxygen. The space stung. He closed it again, stronger this time. More urgent.

She grappled with him, tugging at his bottom lip, refusing him access in her spitefully stubborn way. Sparks flew down his back, through his chest. Her small hands ripped off the suspenders, tore the shirt. Fingers running down his chest, she broke away, moving her mouth down his collarbone. He moaned weakly, combing his fingers through her hair, supporting her neck as she arched.

His hands found the zipper he had been so tempted to undo earlier that night. He brushed the lace from her shoulders, placed fairy kisses across her jaw. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him close with surprising strength. Their mouths met again, fighting. He blindly tore off the dress, blindly ran his hands over her skin. She shivered under him, a cry escaping her lips.

_Take me._

Shaking hands grabbing the line of his belt, she tried to unbuckle it. He helped. Pressing his bare chest against her she trailed her fingers over his back. He pressed his mouth to her breast and sucked. Her nails dug into his skin. She squeezed her thighs, rubbing herself against him. He buckled, eyes clamped shut, breathing shallow.

_Nikita_.

He caressed her side, her chest, her neck. Drank in her taste, felt the heat from her legs. Devoured every inch of her body. It was all his now. She wrapped her arms around him, pulled him closer. Ran a finger along his hips, she made circles with her tongue against his skin, brushing over his scars with honey-like sweetness. Her hands moved lower, he tensed. She moved her mouth to his ear and nipped at his lobe – pain and pleasure coursing through his body. She leant back with a devilish smile on her face then came in to whisper something to him.

Tracing the curves of her waist, he didn't hear her at first, feeling the tickle of her lips, the wetness of her tongue. She spoke louder, harsher.

"Why are you doing this to me?"

He still had his eyes closed, still had his hands running up and down her skin but he was confused.

"Michael."

The body underneath his changed. The slender bones, toned physique, long silky hair vanished.

There was someone else.

He jumped backwards. Eyes snapping open, he looked down at Elizabeth. Her pretty face was disfigured, charred mouth curved into a silent scream. Black tears seared down her skin and burnt holes in the sheets. Her empty sockets stared back at him in betrayal. In loathing. She reached out a hand, it was twisted. The fingers were curved at odd angles, the bones shattered.

Fear made him immobile.

Elizabeth dropped her hand and buried her head into the pillow. She sobbed into the bed, heartbroken. Each cry racked her ruined frame and ripped at his consciousness like daggers on thin gossamer. He wanted to run. To scream. To whimper. Michael opened his mouth but stopped as a familiar sound rang out.

It was laughter.

_Haley_.

"Daddy, whose pretty dress is this?" she said, her voice bright and bell-like. He turned around and looked at her, she was by the fireplace, touching Nikita's dress which had miraculously folded itself over one of the upholstered chairs.

Her hair hung down her back, pink ribbons matched her floral summer dress. He beamed. A happiness, a _relief_, flooded him and he stepped forward to embrace his baby girl. Haley turned around, her tresses swinging, a beaming smile spread across her face.

But Michael froze.

His daughter's chest was open. A huge gaping hole, bleeding into the dress she still held. She seemed oblivious of it but he couldn't tear his eyes away. Haley ran towards him with arms wide open. He hurried backwards, unable to hide his disgust, nearly crashing into Elizabeth.

"You're own daughter!" she cried in horror, "How could you?"

Haley lifted the blood soaked dress and passed it to him. She had a frown on her doll-like face. "It's not Mummy's. _Why isn't it Mummy's?_"

Michael shook his head, Haley looked at her mother and started to cry. The hole in her torso widened, ripping at the edges as the little girl threw herself on the floor in a tantrum. Her blood painted the carpet a dark red and smeared across the rugs. Bile rose up in his throat.

Rushing towards the door, he twisted the knob, desparate to escape. But Nikita was standing there. She was naked. Her perfection glowed with an unnatural light. The Zoraki in her hand pointed between her eyes. She stalked towards him, "You promised them you wouldn't move on. Not until you killed Kasim."

He found he'd lost his voice. She cocked her head to one side, one hand resting on her bare hips, then other firmly on the weapon. Soundlessly he argued that she had consented. That she had wanted it too.

_It's not my fault._

"You lied," she hissed. The deep red inside of her mouth flashed, "_Liar_."

Michael lifted his hands in defence. She brushed close to him, pressing her body up against his frozen one. The cold point of the gun rested on his forehead. Her eyes bored into his, with none of its previous candour. Her pupils seemed to contract into tiny slits. Like wax-work, her features melted into they became burnt and damaged.

Elizabeth was standing there now, with the gun at his temple. She held up a red and blotched finger. The nail had been ripped off. The dull gleam of the gold wedding band shone on it. Tears stuck in Michael's throat and then with one last gut wrenching look at him...

She pulled the trigger.

You roll outta bed and down on your knees,  
>And for a moment you can hardly breathe.<br>Wondering was she really here?  
>Is she standing in my room?<p>

Exhausted from the flight, Nikita dumped her meagre luggage in the hallway and staggered to her room. She collapsed onto the hastily made bed and allowed herself a moment to breathe. The stale smell of the airport still clung to her clothes and hair. Her very pores seemed to feel constricted.

Claustrophobic.

The cool sheets seemed impersonal, the huge mattress an unnecessary luxury that she didn't want and couldn't share. Yet craving sleep, she tugged the duvet off the bed and dragged it towards her home-made training space. Lying down on the narrow bench press, pulling the blanket over her, she twisted her head to look out at the early morning sky.

_Nikita and her foster brother Luke raced each other to the play equipment. It was a new park and the, as yet, unscouted territory needed a master. At nearly twelve years old, she was older by exactly three years, three months and four days. It was a fact she liked to make known. She was also taller and in her final year at primary school. These two arguments succeeded in making Nikki feel _very_ grown up._

_Still, Luke, in all his eager plumpness, was not to be shaken off and as they headed towards the blue and yellow jungle gym he was hot on her heels._

"_Shoddy the swings!" he squealed, launching himself onto the rubber strip and grabbing onto it for dear life. Nikita gave him a shove and tried to pry off his fingers. He held fast and blew a messy raspberry in her face._

"_Fine, be a baby," she huffed, putting on a mature facade, "I'll just play on the flying fox."_

_She skipped away and remained true to her word, never once turning around to look at the forlorn Luke who felt he'd gotten the smaller end of the stick. He wanted nothing more in the _world _than to go on the flying fox, now. He sat in the swaying swing and looked sadly down at his feet. A glint of something silver lay among the sand. Dropping onto all fours wide-eyed, he drew out a metal chain with a small locket on the end._

"_Finders keepers!" he yelled, lifting up a fist triumphantly. Nikita looked over with irritated curiosity, unhappy her act of enjoying herself on the opposite side of the playground hadn't worked. She hustled him for a glimpse of the treasure._

"_What is it?" she said, staring at the jewellery in confusion._

"Mine_," he said, trying to shake off her grip on his wrist. With surprising force, she clamped her fingers tighter and held him in place. She inspected the locket and opened it._

_Inside were two photos. On the left was a smiling, sophisticated woman with straight brown hair and a sweet, oval face. The other had a handsome, blond man with an excess of hair gel. An engraving read: _FOR YOU, ON OUR ANNIVERSARY. WITH LOVE, MICHAEL.

"_That looks just like you Nikki," Luke said, pointing to the woman. There was only a vague resemblance but she played along._

"_And that looks like you," she teased, "You look like a bit of a smug bugger."_

_He giggled, "What should we call them?"_

"_Our names," she said wisely. He nodded in contemplative silence._

"_Mr and Mrs Meers," he recited. Nikita frowned._

"_No," she said quickly, "Not 'Meers'. Not Gary's name. We'll just be ourselves. I'm Nikita and you're Luke. Just Luke."_

"_Just?" he said. She nodded solemnly. His eight year old brain slowly came to terms with the new development, "Why don't you like Gary's name?" he asked innocently._

_She shrugged it off, "Can I tell you a secret?"_

_Luke's eyes lit up and he nodded very fast, very quickly. She grinned, leaning in and whispering in his ear, "Because Gary's a fat bastard who makes us do the dishes!"_

_He doubled over in comical laughter, "You said a dirty word!"_

"_Boogers!"_

_He laughed harder. She smiled with a hint of sadness then took his hand and said, "Come on, let's swing. I'll push you." _

_Luke beamed, swinging quickly becoming his favourite thing in the world. But Nikita was still sad. Though she had joked about it, she didn't like Gary at all. That was why she always made sure Luke, Penny and Katie's doors were firmly shut up at night._

_She just wished there had been someone to warn _her_ about him. Before it had been too late._

Nikita blinked her eyes open and watched as the sky slowly turned blue. Fairy floss clouds streaked past the glass. It was already morning and she hadn't slept. The narrow bench resulted in aching muscles in places she didn't even know existed. Her head thumped with a persistent migraine. Sitting up and massaging her neck, she wandered to the kitchen and fired up the only appliance she used.

The coffee maker.

Once the comforting aromas of the beans had begun to fill the room, she trudged to the closest bathroom, wanting to rinse out the metallic taste in her mouth. She hadn't taken a step before she heard a key in the lock. Adrenaline spiked in her system. Nikita reached into a drawer, retrieved a Beretta Storm and held it at chest height as the front door swung open.

"Michael?" she hushed. He eyed the gun in amusement then pocketed his keys with a clink. Tucking the gun back out of sight, she rubbed her eyes tiredly, "Why aren't you sleeping?"

"Couldn't. Is that coffee?"

"No, it's the other thing that smells like coffee," she joked weakly, rubbing her head as a vein throbbed. She smothered a yawn and retrieved two mugs. "Want some?"

"Please." he agreed, "You look like crap."

She rolled her eyes, "You have such a way with the ladies."

"It's all a part of my charm," he smirked.

She looked him up and down and chose not to comment. For some strange reason, he was still wearing the tuxedo from _the_ night. Minus the fussy little bow tie, he looked just as dapper as before. If it was possible, with a steamy mug cupped between his hands, too scared to take a sip for fear of scalding, he seemed even more attractive.

Nikita groaned inwardly. It was the combination of lack of shower and sleep that was causing her mind to wander. She breathed deeply, willing the drink to either sooth her into bed rest or caffeinate her into logical thinking.

Neither happened.

All she noticed was that Michael's rogue scruff gave him an extra devil-may care quality – an untamed aspect sneaking in with the dress pants and ironed blouse. An interesting, but effective, combination. She wondered if he took fashion cues from Amanda. The thought of Amanda sitting him down in her lair, forcing his shoulders back and smoothing away frown lines was so amusing she almost laughed out loud.

Though no sound escaped her tightly pressed lips, the cup did shake uncontrollably from her suppressed shudders. Michael looked up in alarm.

"You're exhausted," he stated, taking her hands and steadying her. His misinterpretation made her laugh harder. She guffawed over the counter, brown liquid splashing everywhere.

"Oops," she giggled, reaching down and licking off the residue on her hands. And Michael's. Coffee made him taste much better than the back of someone's hand should have. His fingers stiffened and he slid them away, observing her with sudden reserve.

She looked up, eyes dancing, drugged adrenaline pumping through her system. Abandoning her spilled cup, she took Michael's and drank deeply from it. The heat seared at her throat. He passed her the cup and took a cautious step back. She mirrored his step and stalked forward to meet him. He took another. She repeated it until he was backed up against the sink.

"Are you scared of me, Michael?" she said lightly, running sticky fingers down his cheek. He swallowed. "I won't hurt you," she cooed.

"I know," he said through gritted teeth.

She looked at him and smiled indulgently, "That's my man."

Her face was close to his now. She could smell his coffee-scented breath. Or maybe it was hers. She couldn't tell. Nikita leant, aligning her body against him and sealing his lips with her own. She tried to deepen the kiss, wanting more. He pushed her away.

"I know you won't hurt me," he breathed, "But I never said I wouldn't hurt you."

All of a sudden, she was staring into the barrel of a sub-machine gun. Disbelievingly opening her mouth to ask Michael how he could fit an IMI Uzi in his pocket, he unceremoniously cut her off with an angry grunt.

"I told you I can't move on until – "

"You kill Kasim," she finished. "I know."

"Then why are you forcing yourself on me?" he cried in obvious pain. Tears sprung to her eyes. She never wanted to cause him pain. Attempting to apologise, he cut her off again, "Don't try and tempt me!"

"I'm sor – "

"Don't you understand that I don't _want_ this?" he continued, starting to sound more and more unhinged, "I don't want you!"

"Michael!" she heard herself scream, tears now blinding her. She didn't know what she had done to deserve this strange outburst.

"Do you think anyone would ever love you?" he waved the gun manically. "You're an _assassin_! Who wants to be tied down to a killer? Who wants a woman with blood on her hands?"

"NO!" she shrieked, looking down at her fingers. Dried blood was caked under her nails. She scratched under them, trying to remove the grit. Michael grabbed her cheek and pulled her head up to look at him. There was hatred in his eyes.

"We just _use_ you complete our missions," he hissed. "Once we're done with you killing...we'll kill _you_."

Laughter rung sadistically inside her head.

Nikita squinted in pain, the headache threatening to split open her skull. She spun around, trying to get her bearings. Percy stood behind her, arms folded and mouth thrown open in a gleeful fit of chuckles. She hadn't heard him come in.

"Bravo, Michael," he commended, "Lily was a test to see whether or not you were suitable for greater clearance, Nikita. But our cameras clearly show that you have a weakness for emotional attachment."

Confusion swamped her. She looked between Percy's pretentious smile and Michael's loathsome sneer. The metallic taste in her mouth became stronger. It filled her throat, her nose and watered her eyes. She pushed Michael aside and dry heaved over the sink. Her pores felt stuck. Dirty. She clawed hysterically at her nails, trying desperately to remove the blood.

Faces circled around her. Nameless soldiers, bodyguards, targets, men and women. People who stood in the way. People she'd taken life from. They ghosted around her head, eyes bulging and faces perpetually twisted into expressions of shock and horror as they watched a knife penetrate their chest, a bullet in their head or a belt tighten around their neck.

A woman's scream pierced her eardrum like a banshee. Her pale face contorted in agony as she sobbed over her dead husband's body. The sound broke through Nikita's consciousness. The screaming tortured her. Michael grabbed her shoulders. She squeezed her eyes shut, yet tears still spilled over, dropping pathetically to the floor.

"She's weak," Percy's voice drifted through the shrieking, "Cancel her."

Michael let go. He reached for his coffee cup and chugged the drink in one swallow. Then hefting the gun, took a step back and pulled the trigger.

Nikita ducked. She fell towards the tiles, grabbing Michael's ankle. He flipped backwards, crashing down with her.

Bracing herself for impact, all she felt was softness. She opened her eyes. She was on her bed, Michael next to her with worry creasing his every feature. He gently rubbed her arm. The pressure brought her to her senses.

"What happened?" she asked groggily. He frowned.

"You're screaming. Bad dreams?"

"You could say that..." she looked around. It was night time. Something seemed off. "Michael, why are you here?"

He sighed, "Percy."

She observed him suspiciously, "Percy what?"

"He told me to come..." Michael said slowly, "...finish things off."

Nikita knew what would happen. Her eyes filled with tears and she looked into his devastated face, begging him not to do it. But Michael never disobeyed Division. Ever. He slowly unsheathed a blade. It was a familiar one with the black handle.

Still lying on the bed, she leaned forward and rested her head on his chest. Michael wrapped his arms around her, placed a tiny kiss on her head and whispered an apology. As his hands moved down towards her throat, Nikita's eyes fell on a rusty old chain with a locket for a pendant. She hadn't seen that chain in almost ten years. Even through the film of pain, she could make out the engraving.

_WITH LOVE, MICHAEL_

And the blade sliced across her neck.

She takes you in with her crying eyes,  
>Then all at once you have to say goodbye.<br>Wondering could you stay my love?  
>Will you wake up by my side?<p>

Michael knelt gasping on the carpet. He leapt up in panic, expecting to see Nikita or Elizabeth or Haley standing there in the Russian hotel room again. But no, in the darkness he could make out the shapes of his familiar furniture. The blue digits on the alarm clock read 2:05AM and he sighed. Throwing on a leather jacket, he slipped onto the early morning streets. An all-night diner flashed its tacky neon lights at him.

"Fries," he ordered to the disbelieving woman behind the counter.

As the day grew brighter and warmer, the streets filled and the city came alive – Michael sat facing the wall, his back toward the window, slowly eating his way through cold potatoes dipped in saturated fat. At 6am, when it was acceptable for him to go into work, he keyed into Division and made for Ammunitions.

There, he found himself running his trembling hands over an AK-47 and thinking of Kasim. The only reason he was in Division was because of that man. Though the night's terrors had shaken his courage, they had not weakened his resolve. Kasim was his drive. Elizabeth and Haley, the innocents he was fighting for. Nothing would shake his determination.

Not even Nikita. In a voice that sounded remarkably similar to Percy's, he told himself that she was, '_just a complication'._

About fifty floors up in the air, Nikita was spitting the blood out of her mouth. She had chewed through her lip in her subconscious attempts to not scream. Staring at the mirror, she recalled the blurry images of the unsettling nightmares. It took no psychic to tell her what they meant. As the water methodically washed away her cold sweat, she accepted that Michael would never move on without taking out his family's killer.

Her feelings were just making things harder for him, '_you're just a complication'_.

When you're dreaming with a broken heart,  
>Giving up is the hardest part.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>I just spent 6hrs writing the most intensely disturbing chapter ever *shudder* I hope it flowed. It's 1am and I have double maths tomorrow morning *sigh* Lyrics from "Dreaming with a broken heart" by John Mayer. Alright, now something fluffy. <strong>**I was looking for an apartment that matches my picture of Nikita's. Found the PERFECT one. It's called MiMA on 450-460 West 42nd Street, Midtown NY. Google it.**** It looks like a giant mirror! And for Nikki's insanely amazing view, check out the pics on my photobucket :) (link on my profile)**

**EDIT: **_Sorry if this chap didn't make too much sense. Basically it's broken into three parts. 1) Michael's dream 2) Nikita's flashback within a dream, within a dream 3) reality **REVIEW OR PM ME IF YOU HAVE ANY QUESTIONS :D**_

**EDIT (Jan 5th 2012): tiny changes in wording.**


	7. Oleander 1: Cry

Whenever I see you I'll swallow my pride,

And bite my tongue.

Pretend I'm okay with it all,

Act like there's nothing wrong.

MAY 1ST 2006

"Smile for the camera, dear!"

A hundred bulbs flashed, a thousand clicks rang out. He was sure half those pictures would having him squinting, his features twisted in a painful grimace, probably finding their way onto some gossip magazine with a caption such as: BEAUTIFUL WOMAN ACCOMPANIED BY QUASIMODO. Before a second round of photos could be taken, he forcefully led his obviously disappointed date to relative safety. To his dismay, they had barely gone two steps before the lady on his arm pulled away from him to pose for more journos lining the sides. In those few seconds, a flock of celebrities, models and other A-List pieces of tinsel separated them. He took the chance to dart his eyes around the guests making their way up to the Great Hall.

Of course _she_ wasn't there. She was probably already inside the exhibition.

"Michael, my gorgeous! Come and answer a few questions for the nice gentlemen!"

At her look, he obliging lifted the corners of his mouth and strolled over, one hand in his pockets, the other fiddling with a silk bow tie. Seeing his discomfort, she moved her hands to his neck, adjusted (or loosened, rather) the accessory and ran a hand through his hair.

"There," she hushed, "Better?"

"Marginally," he muttered. She gave his cheek a girlish slap, "Oh don't be like that."

"Tiffane, Tiffane," microphones waved in their faces, blinding lights flashing, recording devices outstretched. "How does it feel to be co-chairing the event tonight!"

She answered all the usual questions; what do you think of the theme? Who designed your dress? What about the jewellery? Shoes? Hair? Bag? And who is your distracted date?

"Oh, this is Michael," she gazed fondly up at him, "A man of few words...but don't let that scare you!" she lowered her voice to a stage whisper, "He's the genius behind tonight's collection. The Head of the University of the Arts in London."

Michael found himself blinking into cameras again. As Tiffane gave him a theatrical kiss on the cheek, he tightened his grip on the gun in his pocket, repressing the overwhelming urge to shoot someone.

APRIL 2006

"Don't be fooled Percy, there's still something there," Amanda warned the man at her side. Staring out at the Common as Michael and Nikita sparred. A circle of recruits had gathered, oohing and aahing at their every move. He had her arm twisted behind her back, suddenly she was on top of him. He threw her to the side, she recovered from the tumble and toppled him to the ground. He cuffed her on the right, she jabbed him in the left. He spun, she turned. He launched, she leaped.

"That's not what's in your progress report," Percy commented. Amanda turned away from the fight to give him an exasperated sigh.

"Of course not," she said slowly, "You see, Michael has _access_ to those. We have an advantage we can use and it'd be such a waste to reveal our hand through a _report_."

He too, turned away from the window, "Use how?"

"I know about Operation Oleander."

He feigned ignorance, "I'm sorry?"

"Oleander, Percy, going down next month at the famous Met Ball. You're using it to swell our private funds. The ones Oversight doesn't know about," she smiled dangerously.

"You mean that trumped up thing they do at the Metropolitan Republican Club every year?"

"_No_...I mean that thing they do at the Metropolitan _Museum_ every year. You know, the one everyone's calling the 'Oscars of the East Coast'?"

"Pretentious."

"Entirely so..." she narrowed her eyes, "Now seriously, if the rumours are true, then I think this would be the perfect time to test out a theory of mine."

Percy carefully smoothed out the handkerchief in his lapel. With curious eyes, he gave a small smile, "Do tell."

Whenever I feel your memory is breaking my heart,

I'll pretend I'm okay with it all.

Act like there's nothing wrong.

Everything was different, now that Michael had told her about Kasim. He could sense her keeping her distance, giving him space. It was like she had put up a purely professional barrier between them, raised in stone and reinforced with steel. Twice, he had tried to break it down during sparring sessions. Both times she had simply moved away from his body and continued to throw punches at his head.

Without the distraction of her presence, his work efficiency had doubled. Despite making Amanda very happy, as far as he could tell from her reports, this meant that he had more free time than ever. Instead of dropping by his student's place, he found himself sitting around replaying their words. Then at night his subconscious writhed in demonic dreams that always ended up with Elizabeth killing him in some creative way. Often Haley showed up. Nikita's appearance was a guarantee.

Usually, she lacked clothing.

"Hey you," said Birkhoff around a mouthful of banana, quickly minimising a screen and spinning around on his wheelie chair. With eyebrows raised he smirked, "Man, that's so Lindsay Lohan pre-rehab. When was the last time you slept?"

Michael ignored him and reached around the protesting guru to click open the hastily stowed window. Pictures of raunchy, voluptuous women grinned seductively back at him. Birkhoff choked and lumps of half-chewed fruit splattered over floor.

"It's a...mistake! Virus...program malfunction...completely...unintentional..."

"Spare me. Just don't let Percy catch you at it," he chuckled, closing the window for good. Birkhoff gave a small whimper. Michael continued to flip through the tabs. There were the usual programs one would expect from an clandestine officer's desktop. Most of the moving graphs, flow of figures and complex algorithms made no sense to him.

But one document did.

"Hold on Speedy Gonzales, you're not supposed to see that," Birkhoff wheeled over and hastily pushed him aside. "That's classified."

Michael stared. Birkhoff busied himself with pressing buttons but the frantic activity eventually came to a halt when he realised Michael wasn't taking no for an answer. He looked up sheepishly and fiddled with the banana skin.

"Look, Mike. You don't understand – "

"No, _you_ don't understand," Michael interrupted, "I have greater clearance than you – "

It was Birkhoff's turn to cut him off, "Nuh uh. Big Guy upped me to level six yesterday. We're equals buddy."

Michael's eyes widened. Frustration quickly took over, "That document...whatever it was. It's that Op that everyone's talking about, isn't it? The one that Percy's kept under wraps for weeks now..."

The techie threw up his hands, "Look man, I dunno anything about that – "

"Why was Nikita's name on it? If it has her then – "

"That totally means you have to get personally involved," Birkhoff stated, pursing his lips. Michael cocked his head sardonically. "Dude, it's nothing serious." Michael took a threatening step closer, "I'm just following orders."

"And this is the anarchist speaking," he said sarcastically.

"It's just an Op," Birkhoff shrugged off.

Michael folded in arms in disbelief, "You know it's not 'just an Op'."

"Go ask Percy," he pleaded, knowing that the risks of spilling the beans were more than he cared to consider. Disobeying orders in Division wasn't like being the naughty schoolboy who spoke out of turn, receiving a few whacks with a ruler at most. In his world, a step out of line meant only one whack would be necessary. To the head.

With a _really_ big blade.

As much a Michael would have liked to know the details then and there, he grudgingly cared too much for the boy to put him in immediate danger. Birkhoff was usually as pliable as the next guy, so the strange stubbornness meant Percy must have personally threatened him. It was already unusual that the boss was apparently going out into the field (if the guards outside Engineering were to be believed) but to have so much secrecy, even for a Division Op, was mystifying. And _why_ was Nikita in the middle of it?

"Fine, just give me a name," he commanded.

"Oleander," Birkhoff eventually said. "He's still going with the flower thing. Now get the hell out of here before you do something stupid. Like try to squeeze more info out of me. _Not_ happening. Scram."

Just because everything is different,

Doesn't mean anything has changed. -Irene Peter

Nikita stared at herself.

Amanda had her try on a gown. It was an assymetrical floor length number with a large slit running up to her hips. Much heavier than it had looked on the mannequin, the material was metallic in sheen and reminded her of curtains. It was as if someone had stepped into a palace or royal dwelling of some sort and taken the drapery off the windows, then sewn it haphazardly together. There was a length of fabric that was neither a sash nor a part of the train. Amanda had her wrap her wrist around it, allowing it to hang down behind her in odd elegance. A vine made of yellow and red attachments become a single shoulder strap on her left side and gold leaf was inlaid in large abstract patterns all down the dress, giving it a slight Oriental appearance – as if she was wearing a modern remake of the kimono.

"Do you like the colour?" she asked into the mirror.

Amanda looked her up and down, "Do you?"

Nikita fidgeted in the flamboyant contraption. Her silence made her opinion quite clear. Coming up to her, Amanda ran a gentle hand down her shoulder, "I forget how much you've grown, 's no need to be afraid of wearing something like this."

She scowled, "I'm not 'afraid'..."

"It's a beautiful colour."

The scowl deepened, "It's _red_. Bright red," she looked away from her fashion adviser's reflection to the real deal, "Shouldn't I wear something that would help me blend in?"

Amanda grinned, "Where you're going, this _is_ blending in."

She considered for a moment, "Where am I going?"

Her teacher simply smiled mysteriously. Frowning, she wondered why Amanda was withholding the details. She knew that the woman loved to drag people along by a string but even _she_ wasn't usually this elusive. All she'd been briefed on was that it was Op Oleander, something grand going down in less than a month, right in the middle of New York. She and Stephen were to head a team of three provisional recruits.

The unusual aspects of the mission didn't escape her. Sending three recruits together made for a volatile situation, which was why it was never done. Even stranger, neither she nor Stephen had been told who would be Point. It seemed they would have to share the leading. The thought of her and Stephen sharing anything was laughable. Both Amanda and Percy had spoken to her about the unsteady relationship between her and her fellow graduate. Now they wanted them on the same Op, which hadn't happened since their own provisional days, while also in charge of a handful of inexperienced youngsters. The whole thing made her nervous.

To add to that, she realised she'd have to navigate a constricting dress and, most probably, painfully high shoes.

"Is it a function, is that why I have to get all...dressed up?" she pressed.

Amanda merely shook her head and continued to rifle through a jewellery box. She returned with a pair of chandelier shaped earrings.

"Gold and topaz, just the thing," she held them up to her student's face, observing the effect. "Yes. Perfect. _Isn't that right Michael?_"

Nikita controlled the instinct to spin around. Instead, she saw him in the reflection. She wondered if he was thinking the same thing that she was: that Amanda's words had just referenced a phrase both had last heard on Op Lily, in Russia, _that_ night. The night that everything had changed. The night that Division was not supposed to know about. The hesitation confirmed her suspicions, those same events from that same mission had just flashed through his mind, the dazed expression on his face drew a questioning eyebrow from Amanda.

"Er...absolutely," he managed to squeeze out, peeling his eyes off Nikita, clad in something as exquisite as she was.

"Can I help?" Amanda asked sweetly.

"Um..." he cleared his throat, "I wondering if you knew where Percy was. He's not in his office."

Carefully putting down the jewellery, she addressed Nikita, "Why don't you go and take that off." Nikita, glad to be in something more comfortable, quickly moved away. Amanda turned to Michael, whose eyes had followed the girl all the way to the change rooms, with a knowing smile she rested a hand on her hip, "What do you really want, Michael?"

"Oleander."

She blinked, "So you've heard."

"Tell me what is it."

"I'm afraid I can't do that."

"That wasn't a question."

A long look passed between them. Finally, relenting slightly, "There's not much I _can _tell you, Percy's playing this one very close to home. But you should be flattered that two of your students have been put on this important mission."

"Two?"

"Stephen and Nikita."

Mouth opening to comment, then closing shut, wordlessly, he frowned. Shaking his head, he looked at her, "You know that's not a good idea."

"Division agents aren't allowed to form attachments," Amanda said, "This is simply a reminder."

Michael instinctively took a step backwards, "What are you talking about?"

She looked at him innocently, "Why...I thought you knew," at his puzzled expression, she continued, "Stephen and Nikita, of course. Why else do you think they're so competitive, always on edge. Sexual frustration."

He found himself giving her another good impersonation of a goldfish. "_What_...?"

"It's been three months since Russia."

"What are you talking about?"

"You seem to be saying that a lot today," she said. "You have no secrets from me, Michael. And three months is a long time for someone to build new...relationships."

"I have no idea what you're implying." He forced himself to look at her blankly, "What about Oleander?"

She smiled broadly, "Percy won't tolerate assets having emotional...preferences. As such, your students must prove that they can successfully complete this mission to...keep their jobs."

"Let me guess," he said, "Completing the mission isn't going to be easy."

"Oh Michael, I thought you were the one who always said that there were no such things as easy missions."

I'm talking in circles.

I'm lying, they know it.

"First Lily, now this," Percy reprimanded, "Don't let what I said about you and Nikita being a great team get to your head."

Michael scowled.

"You have to know I can't put you together every time your protective instincts kick in," he went on, explaining the situation carefully, "Certain missions have certain requirements."

"_Percy_."

The man looked up and acquiesced, "This is the last time."

Surprised that his request had been granted so quickly, he could only nod once in thanks. Almost out the door, he heard his superior call him back.

"But I'm afraid I can't consent to _all_ you want. I can't put you _with_ Nikita – there's a small 'social experiment' I'm working on there," at Michael's worried expression he waved a nonchalant hand, "But no matter, I have a few contacts who can still work you an invitation in. It'll be no problem."

As he left the office, Michael found himself wondering what Percy was planning. So engrossed was he in coming to the worst possible conclusions, he didn't notice the two at the other end of the corridor until he heard their voices. Immediately jumping into the service hallway, unwilling to make forced small-talk with some acquaintance or other, he froze as actual words drifted by.

"_Nikita, we can't keep doing this. You know what Amanda's like, she'll put us up for cancellation."_

"_Let go of me," _Michael felt his throat close up, not even daring to breathe, ears straining, _"I said let _go_ of me! You have no idea what's going on."_

"_But I know you."_

"_You don't, Stephen. No one knows me."_

"_Not even after...?"_

"_Stop!" _she hissed, _"You promised you'd _never_ mention that. Ever. As far as Division's concerned, that didn't happen. You were never there that night, do you understand?"_

"_That night was not something I'd forget, _Nikki."

"_Call me 'Nikki' and you'll wish you were never born."_

"_I know your threats mean nothing. You'd never hurt me," _he said with an obvious smile, _"You wouldn't be able to do it."_

Before he could hear more, another personel was heard coming around the corner. Nikita and Stephen moved their separate ways. Michael stood leaning against the wall, not believing his ears. Refusing to acknowledge that what Amanda had hinted at was true. He stared down at the ground, eyes pressed shut, hoping that when they opened again, it would all be a dream. A terrible dream that would end when he found himself back in St Petersburg, with her at his side.

Why won't this just all go away?

"Amanda," Percy greeted. The woman in question blinked back. "Nikita like the dress?"

"Yes. Even if she won't admit it. She didn't suspect the earrings either."

"Wouldn't have expected her to, they're new creations Engineering's been testing," he murmured into his laptop.

"Should we get Birkhoff?" she asked silkily. Percy considered then gave an impatient nod.

"Did it work?" he asked. Amanda smiled. "Good. Good...We proceed as planned and watch how this little charade plays out."

There was a buzz and the door clicked open. Birkhoff squeezed inside. His messy hair and wide eyes inside plastic framed glasses made him look exceptionally out of place. Beside the towering figure of Amanda and the no less intimidating Percy (even sitting down and with his balding patch clearly visible) he looked like the teen who'd stepped out of the video arcade. The other two resembled power barons of large, ruthlessly successful businesses.

Probably because they were.

"You wanted to see me?" he squeaked. Amanda smirked. He was always hopelessly tongue-tied around Percy. Meanwhile, she knew he'd have no qualms insulting _her _if it had just been the two of them. The presence of the grey haired man with the bushy eyebrows made him almost obedient.

"Good job, Birkhoff," she said. For less than a second, Birkhoff shot her a very dirty look but then his face went perfectly blank and he shrugged.

"I let him see the document and told him to ask you about it," he said, "Right?"

Percy smiled contently.

Birkhoff couldn't hold the blank expression for long. After all, he never usually needed to fake anything. Computers were quite objective. They didn't care whether you were smiling at them or frowning, as long as you didn't douse them in liquids.

"That's it? I don't get to know what's going on?" he cried, mouth gaping open in indignation. "Amanda, come on!"

Amanda merely smiled wider, "We each know what we need to know." Birkhoff scowled.

"Does that mean you two only know what you 'need to know'?" he scoffed, "That's bull. What's the big fancy plan?"

Percy simply sat back and let Amanda deal with him. Watching the scene unfold was much more amusing. Birkhoff looked between their faces and his own fell.

"This is because you don't trust me," he said dejectedly, "I run this place! I deserve to know, guys. And wasn't I cleared to level six?"

Amanda grimaced, "Then this is level seven."

"Seven? What the hell's level seven?"

"Percy. And Me."

"_Elitist_," he spat, "Fine. Don't tell me. But whatever it is, you know Mikey's gonna find out."

Amanda and Percy shared a knowing look as the frustrated tech guy slammed the door behind him.

"Oh, we're counting on it..." Percy hummed, eager to watch his puppets start the play.

MAY 1ST 2006

"Darling, where are you going?"

Michael ignored the crackle in his earpiece. "I guess I'm just not used to being in...company."

Tiffane giggled, "Used to playing lone wolf? Well, getting out and about is healthy, we can't have those good looks cooped up inside all the time, now can we?"

He gave her the expected smile, "Can't we go somewhere, quieter?"

"Oh," she cried, looking over her shoulder at the crowds, "But Anna Wintour so very much wants to meet you. And you know we can't disappoint the host," then seeing the look on her face, "Dear Michael...if you really want to...I guess we could escape into the library for just a little bit. But not too long! I hear they're bringing out those delicious batter balls. You know, the ones with seafood inside and that cream sauce...yako...yaki...taki..."

"Takoyaki?" he suggested.

She gave him a playful shove and crinkled up her nose, "You sound so cute with your little British accent, trying to speak Japanese."

He gave a forced laugh, little did she know that he was fluent in that language, and several others. Glancing backwards, he wondered how Stephen and Nikita were doing. Just as the thought crossed his mind, two shots rang out. The room screamed. No, Michael gathered himself having automatically ducked, the _people_ in the room were screaming. Women in ridiculously high heels were tripping over themselves, hands over heads, running away from a point on the far side of the exhibition hall.

"Michael! _Where_ are you going?!"

He pushed against the current, terrified faces becoming a single blur as he called out to Operations for their eyes.

"Don't move," a shaking voice cried out. "Don't move or I'll...I'll kill you!"

Michael stopped in front of one of the most bizarre scenes he'd ever seen. Percy was on the floor, clutching his leg. Dark red liquid was starting to stain the trouser. Nikita had ripped the sash-like part of her dress off and was attempting to wrap it around the wound. Stephen had his glock on the ground, both hands up in surrender. And their _target_ was holding the weapon.

"_This is Birkhoff, are you seeing what I'm seeing?"_

"Yeah..." he breathed. The sound alerted the group.

"Who are you?" the man with the gun yelled, his hands shaking violently, "What do you want?! Why...why...all of you...I don't _want_ to hurt any of you...but – "

Michael took a step forward.

In fear. Or was it agitation. Or maybe it was all just an accident. Their target discharged his weapon. Michael slumped forward, Birkhoff's voice cursing in the background. He fell with a thump, hearing his own blood rushing to his ears. White light that reminded him of photographers everywhere. He didn't like photographers. Photographers...photo...Then red. So much red. A hand on his cheek. A slap that stung. Someone shaking him. A death grip on his fingers that he couldn't return. Too much red to see. Then black.

Then nothing.

Is it over yet?

Can I open my eyes?

Is this as hard as it gets?

Is this what it feels like to really cry?

Cry.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you to all your amazing support that's made me continue writing! Thank you thank you thank you. To every fav, alert orand review. Kisses times infinity. xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo**

**EDIT (Jan 7th 2012): Saying I 'changed' this chap is an understatement. Song lyrics have changed to "Cry" by Kelly Clarkson. Entire Oleander plot reimagined. I'm rewriting everything so all chaps up until Chapter 13 will make no sense. Setting changed from a fictional building in LA to the real Met Museum in NY. A whole new Stephen sub-plot. New Amanda/Percy agendas. Reasons for rewriting:**

1. reread Oleander and spent the whole time going "WTF WTF WTF" (and I was the one whole wrote it ==)

2. completely unrealistic that a luxury building wouldn't have sprinklers in their rooms

3. really hated the way the Mike and Nikki were characterised (just...in general, I hate it when N is unable to fight. So I rewrote it with M being shot and N having to save the day.)

4. hated the almost complete lack of Mikita for 4 chapters (and I HATE the Nikita backstory in Oleander 4...so that's gonna need changing too...)

**In other news, HOW EPIC WAS S2 PALE FIRE?**


	8. Oleander 2: Let It Hurt

8 seconds before it all sinks in.

MAY 1ST 2006

A bone-framed corset strangled her middle, reprimanding her lungs and crushing her abdominals. The shock of its impact rendered her speechless, breathless, and the room tumbled forward into claustrophobic proximity, then swayed outwards to dizzying heights. Falling to her knees, shaking hands struggled to hold onto something concrete in an attempt to restore some equilibrium to her perceptions. Finding this something was warm and soft, she hung on, bowing her head over it and staring, wide-eyed at the spectacle it displayed.

Or so it may as well have seemed to Nikita as white lights blinded her and a brain suddenly starved of oxygen protested by boycotting all rational thought. Unable to summon up a coherent sentence, she took one hand and slapped it across Michael's alarmingly pale cheek. The other searched for his fingers and applied a vice-like grip.

She screamed his name inside her head, the sound of one's own anguish immobilising her. Frozen in the midst of the chaos, her dry eyes took in the growing darkness within his. A light had been extinguished, like two sides of a weathered coin, she too, succumbed to a living death.

APRIL 2006

Nikita sighed, muttering to herself, "They always try to get cocky with Michael. Why do they always get cocky with Michael?"

He heard the words uttered under her breath and smirked, "Feeling cocky in that suit?"

"That's a good line. I should try it sometime," continuing to mutter, as she sat gingerly on the edge of the divan, head in one hand, disinterestedly wondering how Amanda kept her carpet so clean. Looking up through her eyelashes at a brash recruit being clothed, she half smothered a yawn as a purple tie completed his outfit.

"If we're boring you, perhaps you'd like to come up here and take the lesson?" Amanda phrased an order in the tone of a suggestion.

One brazen word later, she found herself forced to explain the purpose of a pair of cufflinks. Michael bit his lip in amusement, knowing this was one hole she had only herself to blame. Perhaps the only other person less thrilled to be in that room was the student. He made the fundamental mistake of rolling his eyes at her resentfully monotone lecture, successfully earning himself a very hard glare and a sharp, "If you want to get cancelled, fine, go ahead and get cancelled."

"I thought we talked about your temper long ago, Nikita."

She threw Amanda a frustrated frown, "Can someone explain to me why this is necessary?"

"Is there someplace else you'd rather be?"

"No," she mumbled through a clenched jaw, "I just don't see how dealing with kids who obviously think they're better than me is going to help our national security."

"I _know_ what a cufflink is," the recruit hissed in return.

She lifted two palms to the ceiling, "Hey kiddo, I didn't write the syllabus."

Michael gave an exaggerated sigh, "Are you really putting her as lead on a provisional mission. With _three_ recruits? Wouldn't this be better for someone with more experience, Roan for example?"

Amanda didn't bother giving him an answer. Nikita spoke up instead, "Last time I checked, Roan doesn't like scarlet ball gowns...though I can't imagine why. Would you _stop_ moving?"

"I'm not ten, I don't need you to put them on for me!" the recruit snatched the second stainless steel jewellery from her hand.

Michael smirked in confusion. He couldn't remember the last time Amanda allowed a recruit to talk back with that measure of disrespect. A sideways glance told him this attitude wasn't an uncommon occurrence for the student. Wondering who was being tested, he settled again on assessing how well Nikita was handling the situation – after all, that was why he'd been invited in. So far, she was merely suppressing her obvious impatience, she hadn't lashed out. Much.

"Why _are_ we doing this again?" he asked out of the side of his mouth. He received a noncommitted glance and a by-the-book answer. "I _am_ aware that this is a test of some sort. Remember who you're talking to. I'm no recruit, Amanda."

"Michael, I'm just running a routine assessment of her performance."

He raised a sarcastic eyebrow, "Generally those assessments are under 'exigent situations'. This hardly constitutes as challenging."

"Physical tasks aren't the only demands we ask of our agents, you've been here long enough to know that," she said smoothly. He scoffed. "I know how things operate."

Wheeling straight around, she said softly, "Well lately there seem to be many things you _don't_ know. Stephen and Nikita for one. Since they're your particular crop, I expected you'd be well informed of their situation. Apparently not. Excuse me if my expectations of you have dropped."

Looking into her falsely wide eyes, he had to smile, "That's never gonna work." She narrowed them questionly. "This isn't one of your interrogation sessions. This is an 'assessment' remember?"

It was her turn to smile, "I never said who was being assessed."

"So it's me?"

"We're worried at your lack of foresight. You should have been able to spot a relationship, we're just wondering why you haven't."

"We're? Because this just sounds like one of _your_ hobbies."

"Stephen and Nikita is an issue."

He laughed again, desparately trying to ignore the rock that had sunk to the bottom of his stomach and the breaths that had become increasingly more shallow. "Apparently so, as you keep bringing it up."

"Does it make you uncomfortable?"

He stared, "Why should it?"

She nodded, "Indeed."

Nikita and her subject looked over at the adults too engrossed in their own conversation to be paying any attention to them. The knowledge seemed to relax both. Less touchy, she gave him, who was significantly taller, a shove in the shoulder. "Hey soldier, what's your name?"

He too, much less tightly wound, now allowed himself to speak without the edge of arrogance that he'd developed as a defensive mechanism against Amanda's judgement. "Christian."

"Religious?" she joked.

"What?"

"Nevermind," the muttering returned. Unable to stand the mauve polka-dotted tie he was sporting, she walked over to the rack of other samples and started to flick through, lamenting at Amanda's taste. The usual guard outside the office stepped inside and announced their new visitor just as she had decided on a striped lime green number. Gesturing for him to remove the current diaster, she didn't hear Amanda say, "Speak of the devil. Stephen, what's your pleasure?"

"I just finished briefing Kelly and was looking for Chris here, need to make sure he's clued in on the game plan," Stephen said good naturedly, eyes falling on agent looping a tie around his neck, "I seem to be seeing you around a lot Nikita."

Amanda turned to Michael knowingly. Nikita didn't even acknowledge the speaker with a look, offhandedly saying, "Generally that's the case when you're prepping the same Op..."

"Who's on Alpha?" Chris asked. Both candidates simulaneously answered in the affirmative. "Oh, my bad, I thought missions only ever had one leader."

Tightening the strip of material between her fingers she nodded, "Yeah. I am."

"Nikita..."

She looked at Stephen, "I _am_. We decided, remember?"

"...Not really, no."

"Oh come on, we both know I'm the better agent."

"You obviously have the bigger ego."

She flashed him some teeth, "Then I'm halfway there. I know Amanda always preaches that 'confidence is the crux of success', right?" she looked over at the amused woman in question, then to Michael who avoided her eyes, over to Christian who shrugged, then back at Stephen, "Right!"

He glowered, "If you're such a good leader, then why do I have to be the one chasing after our recruits and gearing them up, running through the moves, briefing?"

She waved a hand at Christian, "I am gearing him up."

"No," he argued, "you're picking out his tie. There's a difference."

"Let me ask you something Stephen," she swaggered over, "Wouldn't you prefer that I ran Point in case things went wrong? I mean, I'm not belittling you in _any_ way, but I just don't think you're man enough to handle failure."

He fumed, "I won't fail."

She flipped her hair over her shoulder, walking back to her diverted recruit, "I won't say I told you so."

After standing awkwardly in the centre of the room for several strained moments, the insulted agent stormed out. Michael looked at Amanda as if to remind her of his counsel on putting Stephen and Nikita together. Instead of sharing his sentiments that there could be no two people more at ends, she simply told Christian the green washed him out, brushing past and whispering, "I'm curious at how you could have possibly missed that chemistry," leaving him gobsmacked and doubting of the opinions he'd been so sure of two seconds ago.

Put your best face on for the world,

Fake another smile and just pretend.

But you're just putting off the pain,

Michael had his two agents before him, already severe features made even more stern as he struggled to contain the vestiges of anger Amanda's words had left in him. The long, rectangular table top running down Munitions was generally known as his makeshift office, where recruits often found themselves for prep talks or reprimands. Today, it was laid out with weapons of all calibre and all purposes. Nikita was running her fingers over different arms, judging their effectiveness and throwing them to Stephen, who had a large duffel bag outstretched. They'd divide the weaponry between all assets at a later date, then she'd have to ask Amanda if she could borrow a garter to use as a holster. She lamented need to find another spot for the knife that usually lodged comfortably inside her boots.

An odd silence descended upon the trio. Michael brooding, Stephen musing, Nikita walking around and breathing in the mild scent of gunpowder.

"So, I'm in charge?"

She gripped the barrel of a TAR-21 and launched it at her partner's. He swiped it from the air and dropped it deftly into the bag. "So am I?"

"It's your funeral."

"Technically yours too," he corrected, "If we fail."

She scoffed, "We?"

Struggling to rid himself of Amanda's innuendos, Michael peered between them, punishing himself with consciously seeking out the supposed 'chemistry' between the two. Sure, they bickered. But then Nikita was at ends with everyone. A sharp tongue didn't necessarily mean she was intent on getting them all the male agents into bed. At the image of many bare legs in a steamy room, half-fogged over like the screens of a suggestive shower glass – as if his own mind had censored the scene – he became aware of how irrational it was that Nikita would risk a relationship with an agent.

"The TDI Vector?" a whiff of rose water and fresh make up, "That thing looks like a chainsaw."

Nikita continued to stroke its stock, tiny creases forming at the corners of how mouth, her only sign that she recognised Kelly's comment. "Amanda got to you?"

The girl self-consciously tugged at the roots of her blonde hair, as if commanding it to return to its old frizz. "How'd you figure?"

"Don't mumble," the older agent ordered with a smirk, "Makes you sound like a sulky five year old."

Kelly stepped behind her and pulled a face. In a second, Nikita had the Vector held to her neck, breathing a slow, but hot, stream of air against her cheek. "Respect."

Faking bravado, the recruit stood stiff and tall, forcing the blush of shame down her forehead. She _wasn't_ a child. Hardly even a teenager anymore. Yet the presence of the gun wielding lady with the spark in her eye made her feel empty and inadequate, exactly like a chastised toddler.

"It's not loaded."

"You wanna bet?"

She faltered a beat, "Only with blanks."

She felt her captor shake with laughter, "You telling me you'd like a blank in your neck?" Then almost as if she pitied her courage, Nikita threw her off and Kelly just managed to force her locked knees to stand. Michael's amused face came into focus and her fingers itched to grab the nearest sidearm and start blasting, kill them all – him, Nikita, Stephen. She wasn't a child. She _wasn't _worthless street trash.

Vector still in hand, a wary glance at the fury that how glowed like hot irons, Nikita stepped forward with an arm out in truce. "I'm just teasing, honey."

Kelly spat in her direction, "Don't call me 'honey'."

"Your right. You're about a sweet as truck." The arm retreated and the machine gun twirled in the air and was caught by the bag. Stephen shot a reproving look at her stony face. She questioned him with her eyes. He mouthed, 'are you stupid?' She stuck two fingers between his sixth and seventh ribs.

"G'luck with fitting those guns inside your slut dress," Kelly stormed from the room, muttering, "be like shoving a watermelon up your ass."

Stephen recovered from the stab to attempt a return of favour, but Nikitacrushed his fingers and demanded to know why she was stupid.

"That's Kelly we're talking about. I just spent all yesterday convincing her that we weren't going to hurt her and you decide to hold a gun to her head?"

"Actually, it was neck."

"Nikita!"

She sighed, "If a recruit can't even handle a ribbing in Munitions, you really think she'll survive out there?" she stuck a thumb out to the side like the flag of a mailbox.

Michael interjected, his need to impart his experience overthrowing his stubborn promise to remain in silent anguish. "She's tough, but brash. If she doesn't learn to channel that anger she'll get herself killed."

"She's a strong girl," Stephen insisted.

"There's a difference between strength from will and strength from fear," said Nikita. She roughly zipped up the duffel bag and slung it over her shoulder, strolling away from the men and towards Engineering, "Trust me, I would know..."

When her figure was well out of sight, Michael took all of a second to forget about the reckless Kelly. Disturbed with the knowledge that a few more moments and he'd be forced to make sham conversation with Nikita's indeterminate lover, he took his leave with neither excuse nor farewell to send him on his way. Lost once again in the introspection, it was awhile before he realised his phone was ringing. Seeing it was Amanda, he was very tempted to hang up – but then she'd have the satisfaction of knowing she'd got to him, a petty victory he wasn't about to allow.

"You're needed in Interrogation," was a the brisk order and the line went dead. Compartmentalizing was his forte and he duly did so. The monotonous tap of his shoes the only sound following him along the blue glowing corridors down into the pits of Division.

You're getting used to the rocks at the bottom.

Your heart goes numb but the lonely stays the same.

"Just in time," Amanda's voice greeted him as he walked into the room full of gear. The biggest was in the centre, before which the woman had her arms crossed and hip tilted, watching the progress of a Division agent. "This one's fresh."

He envisioned her licking her lips with a moist, blood red tongue and repressed the shudder. Upon the large screen was the camera feed from one of their white-washed holding cells. A man in dark clothing was bound to a chair, his face half-obscured from their angle and the low resolution of the image. Michael made a mental note to get Birkhfof onto that. Displayed on a smaller screen, was the mugshot of the man in question. His messy blonde hair and heavily bagged eyes gave nothing away. They stared into the camera and extended a cruel challenge. No other identification seemed at hand.

"My guess is he's Gogol."

"I came to the same conclusion," Amanda spoke into a small microphone, "Alyssa, that's enough for today."

The agent stepped out and appeared several minutes later, "I'm sorry I couldn't get any headway," she said to the ground. That was when Michael registered that she wasn't an agent, but a recruit. A brawny red-head, her physique misled one into thinking she was tougher than she was. No wonder the subject didn't even give up his name – one sound of Alyssa's voice and he'd have realised she wasn't cut out for interrogation.

"You did fine," the Inquisitor insisted. The motioned for dismissal. Michael remained unconvinced. "You sent in a recruit to interrogate Gogol?"

"She needs the practice, and I think it's...beneficial, if she can recognise the type."

"Amanda..." he glared into the screen, "What are you planning?"

"To return all my agents back safe and sound," she smiled cryptically, leaving the room only to turn up, a frown upon her usually composed face, in the television. A pair of brass knuckles resided snuggly on her hand and she broke it across the man's face with a sickening crunch. A grimace and a twitch of his head later, Michael had left the room. The text beeped its arrival but a peek at the sender and he chose to ignore it, convincing himself to checking up on the status of Grab team six was more important than whatever Nikita wished to say.

So let it hurt,

Let it beat.

Let it take you right down to your knees.

She dumped the bags of groceries on the counter and spun around, grabbing the gun in the drawer in the process. She barely had time to register two large, black figures before a fist collided with her face. The room exploded into a thousand tiny lights and she staggered backwards. A ham-like hand rose up and smashed her head into the wall.

She kicked out blindly and felt her foot collide with a collarbone. Another shape loomed through her film of red and she grabbed a pan, whacking him over the head with it. The metallic vibrations echoed through the room. Without registering what was happening, she felt the first man grab her from behind, using his immense weight to pin her down.

Blinking into vague consciousness, she watched the masked man reach forward and take her phone out of her pocket. He flipped it open and nodded at his partner.

"What'd we do now?" he grunted. She thrashed until she felt something hard jab into her side.

"Turn on the music, make sure it looks like she's still here," said the unseen man holding the taser, "Text Michael...and Stephen."

The last thing she noticed before volts of pain racked her body, was that the type of taser was exactly the same as those used at Division.

As the darkness engulfed her confusion, she just hoped that whatever was happening – Michael wasn't going to be in danger. She would _never_ forgive herself if he was put in danger. Never.

That's the price you're bound to pay,

And there's really nothing anyone can say.

There's only just one way,

Let it hurt.

Michael did the polite thing and knocked on the door. He waited all of two seconds before sticking his personal set of keys in the lock and letting himself in. As per usual, music was thumping through the apartment. So he didn't bother to call out. She never answered anyway. An hour, then two, then three had gone by before he returned to the unread text with a sense of unsettling guilt. Amanda's words and the overheard conversation at Division were still at the forefront of his mind. He desperately needed to hear from herself, whether or not this relationship with Stephen was a reality. At the same time, he'd rather throw himself off the Empire State Building than ask. So the offer to 'meet up' at her place was grudgingly received.

Hands deep in his pockets, he strolled past the room with the square table and the kitchen with its bags of groceries. For some reason, the sight of them amused him. It wasn't until he had reached the training space that he realised it was empty.

"Nikita?" he called, stepping forward and turning off the music. The sudden silence was so thick it seemed to smother him. His hand flew to his holster and stepping back through the gallery, he peered inside the laptop room. Empty. The laundry and bathrooms. Empty. Against the floorboards, his shoes clicked awkwardly. He felt like an intruder inside a stranger's house. Rounding the corner with almost predatory movements, he whipped the gun out and levelled it at the master bedroom.

Empty.

Cautiously pulling the door to the walk in wardrobe open, he peered inside. Nothing. The room was devoid of all movement. The sheets messily made. It was like she had left in a hurry. But there was no way Nikita wouldn't have turned the music off. She was incredibly energy conscious. And at its volume, it wasn't something she could accidentally leave running.

Gripping the gun tighter, he walked towards her sleek weapon's case and looked inside. The silhouette casing for a pistol was a gaping mouth, engulfing him in the truth that she wasn't home. He told himself to breathe. It could mean nothing. Of course she would always be armed. It was something Division taught them to do. Something _he_ had taught her to do. A missing weapon should comfort him, it meant she wasn't defenceless.

_You don't even know if she's in any danger_, he thought. Then again, it wasn't like she would have left in a panic just to get milk.

That left two options. Both were unappealing.

She had either been forcefully taken away. Kidnapped. Or she was still somewhere inside. Unwilling or unable to answer.

Taking out his cell, he hesitated and then rang the third number on speed dial.

"Brother, wassup?" Birkhoff mumbled distractedly.

"I need you to do a quick tracker check," Michael said, acting as if it was simple protocol.

"Er...now?"

"Yes. 'Now.'"

Birkhoff was silent for a moment, "Okay...who's?"

Michael was careful to keep his voice steady, "Nikita's."

"Jesus Mike, why are you – "

"Just _do it_," he growled. As Birkhoff tapped away, Michael bit his lip.

His noticed a large piece of paper sticky taped to the bedside table. It covered the surface from corner to corner. Bending down, he realised it was a word map. A concise and rather familiar one. Large bold words said; Surveillance, Weapons, Infiltration, Combat, Extraction. Beside each word, lines branched out and described smaller sub-divisions. Electronic and manual were two types of surveillance. Firearms, blades, explosives, poisons and bludgeons were types of weapons. Beside Infiltration was the word Acting, beside which contained Language, and then proceeded to list twenty-two languages – all of which Nikita was half-fluent in.

As he looked closer, he noticed the names of specific makes of guns, types of hand to hand combat and their best training regimes, methods of extraction, electronic paper trails, how to wire a signal jammer, modes of dress and even as detailed as the ingredients needed for certain homemade bombs.

It was a comprehensive, hand written diagram of everything Division had ever taught her. From the broad picture down to the tiny details and the best ways to perfect those skills. She was precise, organised and...still missing.

"Michael," Birkhoff's voice brought him back to reality. "Still there?"

"Where is she?" he asked.

"At her place. Is that a problem?"

Michael felt his stomach drop. He stared around at the completely empty and completely silent room. "No...I was just...checking..."

"Wait. What's wrong? Why – "

"_Bye_," and he clicked the phone shut. The stillness of the room racked at his nerves. So she had either removed her tracker and placed it in the bin. Or she was still in the house. Tied up. Unconscious. Dead.

No.

Division's trackers went offline and turn red in an event of a death. Birkhoff would have picked up on that. The thought wasn't the most comforting thing. Then again, until he could wrap his arms around her tiny shoulders, nothing would reassure him. Nothing would –

CRASH!

Gun out and swinging, he wheeled around and nearly shot at nothing. But the thrashing sound came again. From under the bed. He dropped to his knees, weapon still between his fingers. The sight knocked all the breath out of him.

And not in a good way.

Nikita was strapped to the metal frame of the bed, her back to its underside and face inches away from the floor. Her arms were spread out to their limits, straining at the sockets, her legs pinned together. From her struggles, the chains had dug into her wrist and broken the skin. He could see the chaffing had left her raw as he sliced through the binds with his knife. He rushed to free her legs and she dropped to the ground with a thud, barely keeping from smashing her nose.

"Division...Divi... they tried to kill me!" she cried as hacking coughs broke through her body. The dust mites were getting into her eyes and making them water. Michael slid out and gave her his arm. She barely had enough energy to hold on as he pulled her into fresher air. "I heard you...Water. I need. Water."

She sat against the bed, gingerly trying to move her weak and cramped muscles. Michael didn't want to leave her, not for one second. She started coughing again, the dry sound of sandpaper skin bolted himto a compromise. He would sprint very fast and be back before she knew he was gone.

Before he could leave, she had heaved herself to unsteady feet. In an instant, he had an arm snaked around her waist. "You should rest. You're still weak from – "

"Michael, I am _never_ weak," she said furiously. "Let go. I can walk myself."

He refused to.

The heat of her body, however crippled, was something he hadn't realised he'd missed. All thoughts of possible other men in her life flew out of his mind. For a whole month, she'd been icy to him. Keeping her distance for fear of getting too close. Now here he was, in a position where he could touch her without apology. Division would understand, Division would –

"Wait, what did you say about Division?" he asked quickly.

"I said they just tried to kill me," she replied.

He looked at her disbelievingly, placing her gently in a chair. She threw him a disgruntled glare but took the seat nevertheless. "Two agents. Male. Early thirties. Probably grab team from the way they moved."

"That has to be a mistake," he said.

"I _know_ what Division agents look like," she said after a huge gulp of water, "I am one remember? I know those moves. I'd know them in my sleep and would have beaten them too if they hadn't tasered me. By the time I woke up, I was under that God forsaken bed."

Michael still looked doubtful, "Maybe it was just a group that fought similar to us? CIA?"

"They use three man combos. You told me that once," she said, reviving slightly.

Before he could protest and claim she was being her usual anti-Division self, a sound down the hall caught his attention. Her dulled reflexes didn't notice it, too preoccupied with rubbing the back of her aching neck. A soft click of the lock and then footsteps. Michael had his gun out and aimed through the doorway. With sudden fear, he wondered if the impossible was possible. Had Division come back to finish the job?

A shadow flickered. A glint of metal. Michael fired. Another shot in retaliation. Michael ducked. The coffee pot behind his head exploded, releasing its beans and fragrance into the room. Nikita jumped up and knocked the weapon from his fingers.

"MICHAEL_?!_" she screamed furiously, voice breaking with the sudden exertion, breaking down into another fit of coughs. The figure in the doorway came gingerly into view.

"Sir?"

"No way," Michael muttered. To keep from having to look the man in the face, he bent down and wasted several seconds retrieving his SIG-Sauer. While he was at it, he remained crouched, picking up every loose coffee bean with extraneous care. Meanwhile, he let Nikita deal with their visitor.

"Stephen?" she gasped, "What are you doing here?"

He looked around in confusion, "I got your text. I would've come sooner but Amanda had me in Operations all day and I only just got out – are you alright?" He held up the phone in his hand – the object that had been mistaken for a gun.

Michael stood up abruptly, "She's fine." A vivid image of her being tied to the bed and he being the one who had found her flashed before him.

Nikita watched the two men with interest. Stephen seemed mostly bewildered. Unlike her, he still considered Michael a figure of huge authority. The older man, on the other hand, had drawn himself up to full height and bulk, almost as if he saw the one opposite him as an opponent or threat. Michael stared him down.

"Is there some...misunderstanding?" he said, obviously intimidated.

Nikita rolled her eyes, "Okay boys, let's just calm down."

"Calm down?" Michael spun around and faced her, "It's not everyday I find you captive in your own home."

"She was what?" said Stephen.

"I told you Michael, Percy ordered a hit," she said in monotone.

"You don't know that."

"Percy did what?"

Michael turned to the confused Stephen, "Just, let me handle this."

"Michael," Nikita retaliated, "I don't need to be 'handled'."

"That's not...what I meant. But first, let's review what's happened here."

Nikita gave him a simple look, "Come on, what's to 'review'? Your beloved Division just tried to _take me out_."

Stephen interjected, "Then why weren't you killed?"

Michael gave a very dark look, "Number one, we don't know that it _was_ Division. And if it was...Percy's not stupid – he knows Nikita's too valuable to kill."

"Thanks for the compliment, but the big man on a whim..." she said.

"He wouldn't kill you," Michael insisted. And he really believed it too. Percy wasn't beyond twisted games but a point blank kill order wasn't his style. At the very least, he would have prohibited the use of the taser, he would have wanted one of his best agents to go down fighting. As an ex-soldier, he would understand the honour of falling in combat. Rarely did he ever cancel agents without giving them one last chance to prove their worth. So far, Michael was pretty sure none had utilised that last chance very well.

"He wouldn't kill you," he repeated firmly.

"Well then I'm alive because he wants me to be," she said slowly, "I'm not sure I'd prefer being dead. This way it feels like he owns me."

"Don't. Say that."

Hearing the sincerity in his voice, Nikita met his gaze. They held it for several long moments. For the first time since Russia, both had let their walls drop. To his alarm, he felt hot tears prickle the corners of his eyes. Unwillingly looked down, wondering whether he had done the right thing in pushing her away, practically telling her they couldn't be together, baiscally giving her permission to look to other, weaker, mediocre men. Like Stephen. But as soon as he questioned himself, a stabbing of guilt punctured his chest. He had to stick by his principles – he had to get retribution for the family he had lost. That had been taken away from him. Stolen from him.

Nikita seemed to notice the change. She lowered her eyes too, indisposed to watch him replace his veneer of staunch detachment.

Stephen stepped forward and surveyed the too carefully. "Do you come here often, Michael?"

His superior scowled, "Watch your tone, recruit."

"I'm not a recruit anymore," he challenged.

"That's 'sir' to you."

He blinked and tipped his head in condescending civility, "Sir."

Unable to stand the tension, Nikita stood up and went to pour herself a glass of water. Strengthening with every step, she bent down to pick up a rogue frying pan which she'd used as a makeshift hammer. As she lifted it from the tiles, she noticed a stray bullet. Balancing it precariously on her fingertips, she straightened up and narrowed her eyes. Division didn't use slugs like these. In fact, as indistinct as her recollection of the grab was, she was sure no one had discharged a weapon.

"Give me that," Michael came over, taking the evidence from her hands. He glowered, "Gogol."

"What's Gogol?"

Stephen looked at it curiously, "Copper washed steel casing. 7.62 to a 54mmR. Silver tip but with a red strip so it's not Czech, then probably – "

"Romanian," Michael threw him a derisive smile, "I think I know my weapons thanks."

Nikita rubbed her temple, trying to rid herself of a migraine, "Soviet?"

He shook his head, "No, their reach extends further than the eastern bloc...all the way to your loft apparently."

"Michael, that's not...right," she struggled, "There _was_ no shooting."

"Well then how did a loose bullet end up on your kitchen floor?" Stephen asked.

Nikita took back the object that had probably never seen the inside of a barrel in its life. It wasn't a shell – it was a whole bullet. She looked past it at Michael and his worried eyes, "It might just be me, but this sounds like something _Division _would do."

"Don't start."

"What's Gogol," she repeated.

Stephen jumped in, determined to be helpful, "They're an intelligence service spearheaded by the Russians with headquarters in Europe, the Middle East and North Africa. I did a force-orientated Recon a few months ago, getting a grasp of their numbers, utilities, that sort of thing. Actually, when I met you that night, it was because I'd just come back to – "

Michael's ears pricked, he'd been refusing to look at his old student out of sheer stubborness but now he was all attention. "Night?"

"So Gogol is government?" Nikita doggedly attempted to move past the blunder.

Stephen's eyes widened ata his slip and hurriedly replied, "The Council of Minister's knows about it but there are definitely mercenary practices that fly under the rader. You've never heard of them?"

"_What_ night?"

"No," she shook her head, decidedly ignoring the ever darkening complexion of the man at her shoulder. "It that surprising?"

"A little. I thought you knew everything about Division."

"Division, yes," she said, "Not this Gogol group. Are they dangerous?"

He gave a short, sarcastic laugh, "You're being serious. Wow, so the great Nikita _can_ be ignorant. You really are mortal."

She narrowed her eyes at him. Michael stepped in between them, "Hey," he consciously intruded Stephen's space, "Do you have a problem with her?"

He subject didn't concede defeat, despite having to turn his head to look up to Michael's height and aware the sweep of his arm that revealed another weapon in its holster. Feeling brave, gleefully aware that Michael didn't know what he knew, he suggestively said, "No. But I have a lot of questions."

"Questions?" Michael spat, shoulders thrown back, eyes predatory.

"Yes," he replied, "Starting with you."

"Excuse me?"

"You can't intimidate me anymore."

"Stephen," Nikita tried to warn.

"No no," Michael stepped back, arms crossed, "If he wants to dig his own grave, let him. While we're on the topic of questions, I'll ask again – what night?"

The younger man turned to Nikita, who was glaring at him through her eyelashes, "He'll find out sooner or later and I won't be dying any time soon."

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure."

"But I am sure."

Nikita interrupted again, "Guys – "

Michael swung around, "Do _you _want to explain what happened that night?"

"Don't take your anger out on me, Michael," she said through gritted teeth.

Failing to conceal his frustration, "Well then _explain_."

"Michael..." Nikita said so softly it was also inaudible.

He smoothed down the front of his jacket, looking away, refusing to be affected. Stephen looked between the two of them, a spark in his eye. The seed of suspicion had been planted, sure, he hadn't won as many awards as she, the teacher's pet, had – but basic surveillance skills were enough alert him to something dubious in their supposed teacher-student relationship. He'd suspected (they'd all suspected) that there was something above board going on behind closed doors, but now there was nary any doubt about it.

"I have a...prior engagement," Michael said stiffly, "Stephen will tend to you. I'll see you both back at Operations."

A nod at the two agents and he was gone.

At the definite click of the front door closing, Nikita resisted the urge to knock Stephen out cold. A voice that sounded hauntingly like Michael's cautioned her against an attack in her current state and she settled to running a device across the walls, checking for any bugs that the intruders may have left as a souvenir. A coffee bean rolled into her path along the kitchen wall and she stepped on it with spiteful endeavour. Pivoting around, she pierced his watchful gaze with three thousand daggers of her own.

"How did you graduate."

"What?"

"I said, how did you graduate. How is it possible that you became an agent? You have all the subtlety of a cow on ice. There is nothing between your skull and your eye sockets, which by the way, you are very lucky I haven't stuck my fingers into."

"Look, I didn't say it on purpose."

She took several steps closer and thrust the anti-bugging device at his chest. "It is a very bad sign, for you, that I find even _that_ doubtful."

He lifted his shoulders, "You think I wanted to tell him?"

"I think you're capable of it."

"I told you I wouldn't tell anyone."

"Yeah," she exhaled, "'you promised', that's comforting."

"Nikita...it's not as if Michael will go to Percy."

She stared.

"I mean, he likes you the best," Stephen said furtively, "Right?"

She stared some more. Then exploded in a firecracker of rage. Waving around the device and reminding him that they may have been bugged and Michael wouldn't _need_ to tell Division because they'd have heard it reverberating around the walls of Operations and recorded as proof of her crimes. He simply held on and took the backlash, knowing that there was nothing he could spit back at her that wouldn't cause her to pull her trump card.

"If you were to tell anyone about what happened that night, even accidentally, I will go public about you and frankly I think the consequences would be equally bad if not worse."

There was no need for him to bother getting outraged, the trump card was out already.

"I know, I know," he concurred, "Quid pro quo. I keep my mouth shut, you keep yours."

She lifted an eyebrow, bent and picked up the lone coffee bean, depositing its shattered body in the bin.

You might just find you're better for it,

When you let go,

And you learn.

"Allons-y, it's all ready," he said with a small smile.

_"No surprises, Percy."_

"There are no guarantees in my business. But I assure you, whatever surprises there may be, your competitors will be dead by next Saturday morning, j'en suis certaine." Percy said calmly.

_"Je l'espère bien. That had better be the case."_

"And my commission better be in _its_ case, on the way to America, non?" Percy said and hung up before the speaker had time to reply.

MAY 1ST 2006

"Maybe I'm not the only one who's overstepped himself," Stephen spoke over the top of a champagne flute. His smiling eyes and brilliant smile betrayed by the slight flaring of his nostrils.

"Sorry, what was that?" Michael asked, shocked at his candour, disbelievingly tipping his to the side as if seeing the kid for the first time. The bow tie around his neck seemed to constrict once more. The smell of wealth, and alcohol, could hardly mask the taste of his own blood inside his lip.

"I said I think you, too," he replied unfazed, "have done things you...haven't had the authority to."

Deftly lifting a finger as if to brush aside a strand of stray un-gelled hair, he made sure the Comm was off before carefully choosing his next words around the spicy hors d'oeuvres. "I have access to things you couldn't even dream of."

"Imagination is strange," Stephen said softly, his tone becoming deadly, "And sometimes I find myself imagining things that my teacher, a man I respected, told me never to do," he nodded at Michael, "Because it was dangerous. Because it was unproductive. And now I _imagine_ that yes, you do have 'access' to certain 'things' that you really shouldn't."

"What part of top level clearance do you not understand?" Michael cut, "Or should I speak slower?"

Their tones were so soft, unimaginably sinister, that a stranger with chatter still ringing through their ears would have to assume that these two tuxedo-ed men were sharing a bout of lip-reading. One such guest walked by, noticed Tiffane Culotte's date and felt obliged to bow. Unyielding glares softened for a fraction and both men returned the acknowledgement in some twisted unity before continuing to hiss.

"'Things' can be living, Michael. Like trees or cats."

"Or cockroach's, made to be squished."

In a blaze of red and a glimmer of gilding, Nikita sashayed over, a glass of something pretentious in one hand and a lax wave in the other, ready to dish out to her many admirers. "Well technically trees are Plantae and cats are Animalia not just 'things', according to Linnean taxonomy at least. And I think cockroach's are a prehistoric alien species – how else were they the only things that survived Chenobyl."

The males ignored her. Neither one broke the gaze of the other, Michael's intense and disdainful, Stephen's now relaxed and self-righteous, both dangerous in their own way. The latter wound an arm around the woman's waist placed a casual kiss upon her neck, "Sorry dear, is this gentleman monopolizing me?" he proclaimed to her and all the nearby party-goers, all without removing the gaze from his adversary. Recklessly, he ploughed on with his quest to gain an upperhand, and lowered his voice once more, "Living things you are accessing. Do you understand me?"

"You speak english," the former blanked, "congratulations."

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit."

"I've never heard that one before," Michael continued bitingly, "And here I was thinking you'd quote Plato."

"I'd prefer to quote Socrates anyway, he was the superior, after all."

"Socrates was the mentor. Last I checked, that was me."

"Teachers aren't untouchable, Plato watched his be ordered to death," was the sly reply.

"He took his own life, actually."

"Would you take yours?"

"Now, why would I have to make that choice..." Michael mused.

Stephen dropped his aloof persona and his voice hardened, "They _will_ find out."

"Ditto," Michael, showing the whites of his eyes.

"What secret do I have?" he laughed.

Eyes darting, Nikita watched the tennis match with her forehead creased. She took a nervous sip of her Corton-Charlemagne. "Find what out?"

"Everyone has secrets..."

"That's deep," Stephen agreed, "It just so happens that Percy doesn't like yours very much."

Michael took a step closer, "My _what_ exactly? If you're stupid enough to try to accuse me of something, you might as well do it. Like a man."

Stephen frowned. "Your favourite recruits are always so obvious. In our group, it was Nikita. "

The named agent opened her mouth to retaliate but Michael jumped in before her, "Are you really saying you have a problem with me having 'favourites'? Because that just sounds petty. And immature."

"I'm not an idiot."

"Really, I wouldn't have guessed."

Stephen launched, "Any fool could see that you're in love with your student!"

Nikita pushed away from him, mouth agape once more, but again she was too slow. Michael retaliated, "And what experience or authority do you have to make such a diagnosis? Other than your own ego of course."

Stephen scoffed superciliously, "Experience? Authority? How about having two eyes...now, this doesn't have to go to Percy – if I get one thing in return."

Michael almost laughed, "Are you blackmailing me?"

"Let's call it coming to a compromise."

At this moment, Nikita had to intercede, "Stephen, how many James Bond movies have you just watched? Because last time I checked, you didn't have a spine." Michael smothered a wide smile with a sculling of burning liquid, and felt immeasurably proud of her, "Have you gone mad? Did you exchange your_ brain_ for a backbone because you should have asked for a better deal."

He grimaced, "I have had enough of your shit Nikita, you think you're Percy's favourite, well I'll show you just how insignificant you are."

Michael shared a look with her, "Is this guy for real?"

"You trained him," she rolled her eyes.

"I am the leader on this mission," the agent pushed on, "I am Alpha. I am Point. Call it what you want, but tonight – I am in charge! If you don't like it, go to Percy!"

"You just admitted that Nikita is Percy's favourite," Michael quipped, "I don't think that's a threat."

"I have enough dirt to bury you," he said, "_Both_ of you."

"I'd like to see you try," said Michael.

Stephen looked him up and down, "And you, Nikki, do you want to see me try? Percy's not going to be happy once he hears what you've done with_ two_ men."

Michael blinked, confused, Amanda's words flooding back again. He shook his head, probably the vodka he just downed. Surely Stephen didn't just say that. By the time he'd come to grips with his hearing, Nikita was leading her date forcefully away. The brown-haired man turned his head and shot a cavalier grin over his shoulder. Left alone in the masses, he dropped the empty glass upon a floating waiter's plate and moved towards a corner of the museum, somewhere away from displays and the inevitable crowds they drew, to remain in the company of his own insecurities for the rest of the night.

Barely ten minutes into his self-pity and demoralization, he spotted a man with a look of steel. There was something about his bearing that drew the eye and then forced one to look away, as if they'd seen something vulgar or distressing. It was as if he was a negative charge carving a path through the throngs, people subconsciously gravitating away from him.

From across the room, Alyssa's eyes incidentally found his. Wordlessly, the conclusive agreement rendering Comm use unnecessary, they began to shadow the figure, keep a distance of smiles and bows – the Russian Europop that had just blasted over the speakers seemed to be laughing at them.

Gogol was in the house. And so was Percy.

And Nikita.

May not be what you want but it's what you need.

Sometimes the only way around it, is to let love do its work.

So go on, let it hurt.

* * *

><p><strong>There's nothing quite like finding Nikita a prisoner in her own home to break the Kasim-ice.<br>**

**EDIT: 15th April 2012. Various changes, big and small (mainly big...I lied, mainly GINORMOUS!). Lyrics from "Let it Hurt" by the Rascal Flatts. Kelly is glad to meet you and is having fun making this story Season 2 compliant ;) French part: Percy says "Let's go, it's all ready" the voice says "I hope so. That had better be the case."  
><strong>


	9. Oleander 3: Dancing In A Burning Room

I wasn't a special as you.

I couldn't bat my eyelashes at Michael,

And get out of trouble. –Katheryn Winnick (as Kelly)

MAY 1ST 2006

"What are you doing?" she had a hand at his chest. To casual observers, it was simply a protective claim of property – this is _my_ man, stay away or suffer excruciating pain – but he could feel her claws clamp into his flesh. "Making a statement."

"Making your grave."

Stephen gave a perfunctory nod to some stranger across the room seeking his attention with their eyes, "I think the phrase is 'to make one's bed.'"

"Artistic license," she bared her teeth, emitting a shrill laugh for the benefit of any eavesdroppers. Pulling him around the corner with a predatory glare that may have been mistaken as the 'come hither' of a lover wishing for a rendezvous, they escaped the bustle of the library. Into a room of Renaissance bronze, he shuffled, herded by the threatening pressure on his lower back. Forced to back up against the Riccio lamp in its pristine glass cube, he lost much of the blind courage that had led him to blackmail Michael.

"Blackmail?" she jabbed a finger at him. The decorative dragons upon the sculpture behind him seemed to join in her accusations with spits and thrashes of their own.

"Blackmail's such an ugly word, let's call it a warning."

A slap. More tiny hisses at his flank and he opened an eye to see her storm from the room, the hem of her dress flicking around the corner leaving a wake of flames across the fawn coloured carpet. It stung. A little at his cheek, a lot in the mysterious place that housed his dignity. Muffled by several hundred feet of stone wall, the din and clatter of the cocktail hour seemed as distant as the actual objective of their mission. Icy fingers struck his face a second time with the reminder that he had fought to lead this assignment. He'd drown _himself_ in acid before admitting to Nikita that the commotion, anxiety, even the celebrity of the night was making it difficult for him to concentrate. With the unwelcome additions of two other burdens and now unforeseen tensions between him and his superior – a shared Point would have made the night infinitely more bearable.

Stepping away from the sounds of the party, he moved further into the museum. Through one archway he stepped into a pavilion of medieval cloisters, then crossed a gallery with glazed granite and a domed roof, past chests of ivory and enamel in another with ancient manuscripts displayed above black and white checkerboard floors that glinted from the reflection of the fairy-lights above. Finally he found a secluded place with only two points of ingress. Stained glass windows depicted Moses presenting the tablet of laws, an alter place upon which two symmetrical iron candleholders rested were the only objects in the otherwise bare room.

The walls themselves seemed to pop from their two dimensional constraints, brushes having painted the deft strokes of inconstant shadow. Somehow, the Holy Spirit descended in one scene, the Last Supper commenced in another. The diagonally paved puce marble directed his eyes towards a small chamber in the side of the left wall. Only there, would he feel safe enough to dial the number seared into his mind.

Burner phone in hand, eyes checking the two by four space for a security camera (there was none), the other gripped the 500 hundred-year old wood. "Hey, it's me."

A moment of pause where a peculiar ringing sounded replaced his throbbing pulse. He heard the reply of the voice on the other end and took several deep breaths to calm the mild panic. He hadn't wanted this. He'd only been do a basic Recon, but they'd caught him – threatened his life, coerced him to work this mission for them.

"The exfil point is on the ground floor, outside the Nolen Library near garage parking. Division will have cars waiting to pick up all assets and Marie Culotte, Tiffane's sister." He stared down at his watch, awaiting the next orders. It had been almost ten minutes since he'd left the others. "Right. I'll tell him I'm bringing him to safety. Yes Sir, I've found a place far enough from the action – it's a piece of an old French chapel."

At the deadening of the line, Stephen exited the area, feeling like someone had painted a large target across his forehead. The first of his burdens seemed to double in weight, like some celestial force had strapped a large metal ball and chain to each of his ankles. Attempting to act inconspicuous, his peripherals caught the slow turn of museum cameras and prayed that the parasite Birkhoff wasn't manning any. Hopefully the business of watching for any unforeseen circumstances in a gathering of hundreds was keeping his hands tied back at the T.J. Watson Library. Back across the medieval gallery, past the elevators they'd soon be using for Exfiltration, and just twenty seconds from returning to the arena – he heard the commotion.

Amongst the usual uproar, there was an extra note that caused a spasm of alarm to run from his toes to the knife hidden in his shoulder holster. A slight change in pitch and volume, a dissonant clang of glass, a rush of footsteps somehow out of the ordinary and that unexplainable, unnatural smell of fear made his ears prick. Entering the fray, he just spotted the distinctive tell of a Gogol agent, masquerading as a waiter and then noticed what had caused the mild disturbance.

Michael had rushed across to Percy, almost knocking him to the ground, becoming a human body shield between the boss and the enemy agent offering more refreshments. But instead of whipping out a sidearm, the man simply feigned surprise. Anna Wintour at Percy's arm was crumpled in an indignant pile of taffeta and tulle. The set of her mouth as thin as a piece of chicken wire.

Into the chaos strolled a confident Nikita, she offered a hand, hushed assurances to the mortified hostess, threw a joke at Percy and a line of witty apology to the Gogol plant. A glint of metal disappeared into the folds of her dress, a twirl and a toss of her hair later, she had been asked to dance.

"Oh let's!" cried Wintour, struggling to regain her footing, "Punish the notoriously reclusive genius with a waltz!"

There was laughter. The moment of fright turned into an opportunity for pleasure. An oval dance floor was made. With a face of thunder and dragging feet, Michael resumed the role of the gothic fashionista, on his arm the exotic belle that called out for some suitable music and flipped her smoky eyes at the audience. She seemed to soak up the adoration through her very skin, placing Michael's hand against her waist and starting to whirl to the Prokofiev now replacing the Red Hot Chilli Peppers. None but he raised their eyebrows at the apparently socially inept partner who miraculously found his feet in the fifteen seconds it took for them to complete a box step.

Eyes drifting from the spectacle before him, Stephen noticed the affronted waiter mumbling to himself. So the troops were gathering. Whatever the agent was being fed through his earpiece, it probably didn't compliment the two Division personnel currently frolicking at the crowd's ease, a little too close and a little too lost in each others eyes for strangers who had supposedly just met. His earlier exclamation once again confirmed, Stephen wondered why Percy continued to keep them together on missions.

Disinclined to be baffled, he took advantage of everyone else's distraction to seek out Patrick. If Gogol was about to strike, he needed to get Patrick to the chapel as soon as possible. The deed must be done before he activated Phase 2 of Division's plan. After all, while Patrick escaped, got hurt and ultimately died, he would be assembling his own agents, accounted for and unblamed. If Patrick got himself killed through sheer stupidity, Division nor Gogol couldn't persecute him. He'd be neither betraying one nor working for another – forcing them both into a position of stalemate.

I'll make the most of all the sadness,

You'll be a bitch because you can.

You try to hit me just to hurt me,

So you leave me feeling dirty,

'Cause you can't understand.

Nikita pre-empted the swell in the music and timed the moment to take a step in closer. She'd planned to verify with her dance partner the existence of Gogol among the crowd. But the extra few inches presented a problem only her pounding heart could sense. Heat simmered across the skin of her neck, her breath escaped equally hot and uncertain. The hesitation cost her the precious few seconds in which to trade words on mission adjustments and plan B's. As Michael spun her back out, she found with a wry grin, that she didn't mind. Gogol wouldn't fire on them as they twirled on the makeshift ballroom. Security would be on them in moments and the organisation would have sent their agents to a kamikaze death.

A strong arm brought her back in and she found herself pressed up against said arm's chest. The music almost demanded them to move in unison now, no more trills and flourishes for one partner or the other to show off a few moves – in the steady beat of the melody, they stuck to each other's skin and spun in effortless harmony. A step back here, a half step forward, a twist and she was facing the ceiling, looking directly at his hovering lips, then she was upright again and so they continued – anti-clockwise in a spiral of frozen enchantment – guiltily unaware of the world that awaited outside their bubble of spin turns and rondes.

Prokofiev melted into Strauss, several more couples joined the spotlight and others disintegrated into lowered conversation around mouthfuls of food as waiters poured in, tempting the congregation with new wine and fresh canapés. She inclined her head away, looking at a spot to the side of Michael's left shoulder, arching backwards.

Blue Danube threatened to consume her; she felt lips brush against the exposed flesh of her neck. Eyes fluttering closed, Nikita stepped into the shadow turn and lost herself.

DECEMBER 2005

"Michael," Nikita said for the umpteenth time, "Where are you taking me?"

He simply grinned back at her and continued to stroll down the lamp lit streets of Midtown. The chilly night wind was whipping at her paper thin dress and she grunted disconcertedly about being female and having to wear heels. They rounded the corner onto 44th street. She groaned.

"_Michael_."

"Nearly there," he sang. How she could whine about walking when she'd undertaken missions in shoes that looked far more dangerous, was beyond him. But he wasn't complaining. If Birkhoff's saying was anything to go by ("Look but don't touch, Mikey!"), he much preferred her legs in killer stilettos than in flats. Though to be honest, he wouldn't have minded if she wasn't wearing anything much at all.

Telling himself to stop thinking those thoughts, Michael continued to stride ahead at a pace that he knew she didn't approve of.

"You're impossible, do you know that?" she commented.

He smiled teasingly into the distance. He did know it. And he loved it. It wasn't often that he had the upper hand on her. He'd long started to feel like a stage prop, something to be handled when necessary but of no particular value to the scene. Any opportunity to take the lead was a precious chance. She'd left the nest but was still alight on the same tree. He knew that within half a dozen more Ops, his agent would have migrated to Antarctica. Many a flock had done the same.

Only this time, he wanted to hold on.

To have her ask questions, doe-eyed and trusting. Open. To take in his advice and turn to him to fix her mistakes. Sure, she'd never been the easiest tool to manoeuvre, always taunting him and pulling snappy remarks out of the air, but while she had been at Division, he'd always felt needed. Even if it was grudgingly.

Now, the real world called, with foreign scents that offered an exciting array of options outside of the usual vegetable stews and bland custards. Countries were mere fingertips away. She had a credit card with more money than most people in the United States had ever seen in one hit and an appetite for adventure that no stint underground could quell. Nikita was more than ready. There would be weeks where she wouldn't be needed in Operations. With the unfamiliar luxury of free time and no curfews, agents sprinted in dozens of different directions. Some travelled, some picked up new hobbies, others made up for lost time by watching hundreds of movies, weaselling their way into every bar or burying themselves in books.

Nikita was no different. Though every action in Division had proved otherwise, the girl who thrived solo had been spending her weeks reaching out to a society that would never truly accept her. From the sidelines, Michael watched her be Stephanie the real estate agent, Rebecca the stoke broker, Josie the wife of an international businessman and Luca, the college student paying her bills by walking people's dogs. Occasionally she'd drop by Division, pick up a new set of weights, do the weekly check-in with the ever-scrupulous Amanda or run a half-day surveillance on some foreign ambassador staying in New York.

He'd barely been seen her. When musk-scented manila folders with Ops for prep arrived in his arms, he'd flip to the page of listed agents – scanning eagerly for her name. The yank on his heartstrings that it may be a kill job barely registered anymore. Selfishly, Michael preferred to put her in a situation she hated then to have her out in the wild, picking up all sorts of wonderful new tastes and forgetting about home.

About him.

"This had better be worth it," she muttered. "How much further?"

"You'd be a very annoying kid on road trips."

She stared off into the distance, "I wouldn't know."

He looked back over his shoulder, only just stopping himself from throwing a hand to his temple for not remembering that fun family holidays didn't exist in traumatic childhoods.

"If we couldn't even stand each other at normal times, I'm pretty certain a road trip would have ended in a murder or two...or ten." She kept it light, but he could tell there was no real joke. Our of the many unnerving developments that day, hearing Nikita talk of her family was quickly rising to the top of the list.

She changed the topic, "Did you ask Percy about..."

"Why he made Birkhoff tell us about Op Lily?" he caught on, "No. Because _that_ conversation would have gone down well."

The fog of unspoken things descended upon them once more. Michael couldn't blame her for wanting to be someone else: Stephanie, Rebecca, Josie, all of them. To be able to lead a life without doubting the intentions of all around you, without needing to feel the cool touch of a gun to find safety, and without needing to hide natural human feelings that were obvious to all and acknowledged by none. Everyone had moments in their pasts, things they'd wished they done – or hadn't done. People who'd hurt them, and vice versa. But there was pain, and then there was Pain. Some things never really disappear, always at the corner of the room, in the darkest parts of the night, the shiver up the spine. Like a ghost, like a curse.

Four years on and his flesh still singed from the explosion that had blown to hell the dreams he'd had as a normal man. Fours years on and the scars still tore at their stiches, the nightmares remained.

But four years on, someone new had entered his sorry remains of a life.

Not since Elizabeth and Hayley had he noticed, let alone given any attention to, those rumblings that started deep inside the subconscious cavern of the gut. Surely it was counterproductive to humour the emotions that had no place inside the type of life they lived. Surely it was beneficial for both their sanities to ignore the hot flushes and frenetic heartbeats. Surely radio silence was preferable to hearing certain words being said aloud and then dealing with the consequences of never being able to take them back.

How easy it was to think such thoughts within the unyielding walls of Division, surrounded by the faint sound of machinery, the tapping of serious shoes, and the scent of mild air freshener that failed to completely vanish the years of sweat, rust and steel. How easy, when faced with the daily dose of criminals and terrorists that came their way, to feel purposeful and righteous. But in the chilly winter of just another normal night, taxis and various street traffic passing them by, without the pounding reminder that 'this is war, this is war' – how easy to push aside that inconvenient curtain of guilt.

"Is this it?" she suddenly said, staring at the building in front of her.

Michael blinked as if from a daze, "Not fancy enough?"

She looked at him in shock, "_Too_. So this is why I had to dress it up. And here I was thinking we'd be going to Starbucks."

"Well, you look perfect," he said, extracting an involuntary smile from his partner. Expecting her to withdraw into herself like so many times before, he was pleasantly surprised when she blushed slightly and punched him harder than necessary on the arm.

"I just hope this place serves something other than meat."

As she walked inside, Michael lingered a little over the threshold. He watched her saunter over to the Maitre D and flash him a winning smile. Not since 2001 had he felt so alive. Not since then, had he had so much to lose.

I was the one you always dreamed of,  
>You were the one I tried to draw.<br>How dare you say it's nothing to me?  
>Baby, you're the only light I ever saw.<p>

"The Stanford White Studio, Mr and Mrs Smith," the gentleman announced, sweeping them into the private room. Michael enjoyed the look on Nikita's face. "Please call when you're ready to order."

He followed after her and watched as she stepped into the centre of the room and pirouetted, laughing. Her eyes were sparkling as she took in the 18th century French fireplace, the comfortable chairs with a faint whiff reminiscent of moth balls. A door opened onto the terrace, where the sounds of traffic and petrol and car exhaust mingled with the smoky tang of wood. Michael took off his suit jacket and flung it on top of embroidered cushions, strolling to the sturdy 8-seater table, candles and complimentary flowers already in place.

"Do you like it?" hands deep in trouser pockets.

Nikita slid off her shoes with a relieved sigh then put her hands on her hips indignantly. "_Yes_. I like it."

He bit his lip whilst flipping through the menu.

She gestured around, mouth beaming, eyes angry, "How many strings did you have to pull to get this place tonight?"

"Firstly, it was available, so not many strings at all. And secondly, you were the one dying of hunger," She glowered, he smirked. "As I recall."

Forehead slowly smoothing into a pout, she grimaced and strode over, scanning the selection of dishes to tempt the palate. "Why is everything meat?" she groaned. "Is the universe trying to send me a message? Because it's not happening."

Michael rolled his eyes, "I doubt the scallops felt much pain. They're brainless lumps of gloop. Honestly, how inhumane could it have been?"

She scrunched up her face, indignant again, "It's the principal."

"Fine. Let's just drink," he waved the wine list.

"So you can see me intoxicated?" she teased. He blatantly looked her up and down and nodded. She laughed. "I'll order fries."

"I book the Stanford Studio and you order something you could get at a diner?" he faked insult.

She shrugged, pulling out a chair and settling herself into it, "I said I'd be happy with Starbucks. But now that we're here, at least I'm sparing your wallet."

"Division's wallet," Michael said.

Nikita tilted her head and then brightened mischievously, "Oh well in that case let's order everything and max out Percy's bank account!"

"You're right. Let's just have fries," he received another playful punch to the arm.

She stuck out her tongue at him. He kicked at her legs and she jumped out of her chair, giggling madly. Leaping forward and dropping the menu, he lunged and they fell onto the couch. Her chest shook from under him and she threw back her head in hysterical laughter as he tickled her stomach. The dress rode up her thigh and he dropped a hand to it, the other coming up behind her neck and brushing through her hair.

She smiled up at him. "Nice choice," she murmured, "A room that Percy couldn't bug."

Michael ran a thumb down her cheek, "What if it is?"

Nikita grinned, "Screw him.

She pushed Michael off her, only to have him take her waist from behind, flip her around and pull her into something of a hug. Giving a few uncertain laughs, she felt him take her frozen arms and put them over his neck. He shuffled her to an area of open space with more grace than she'd have imagined coming from the gruff marine.

"We're dancing?" she scoffed.

"I evaluated your presentation assessments," he rocked her from side to side. "I know you know how to."

She lowered her head, hiding her confusion, "I do...just not," the words 'with you' hovered for a moment, "without music."

"That can be arranged."

"You sing?"

"Like a mockingbird."

"I think it's nightingale." She felt him shrug, uncertain of where to place her legs, how to move her hips, where to look. The swaying was becoming exceedingly awkward. "So you're gonna, what, do your best Pavarotti impersonation?"

He stopped moving, bending down to look at her face with a quizzical one of his own, "You like opera?"

"What?" her eyes flickered upwards, "It was the only thing they played during Rec time on death row. Guess it was preferable to heavy metal. Less rage-worthy."

"What do remember? Bocceli? Caruso?" she made faces of great pain, not particularly wishing to hear Michael attempt to sing any kind of music, let alone opera. Nikita was a afraid she'd start laughing, or crying, probably both simultaneously. "How about Plácido Domingo?"

Before she could react to this new name, she found herself unceremoniously flung to the floor, hung as from a piece of string, at an angle precariously close to horizontal. She gripped his right forearm, and he hers, feeling his toe supporting her from between her shoulder blades. Then with a smirk Michael began to hum a tune she recognised as 'La Cumparsita' – starting to lead her on a dance she desperately did not want to partake in. When did the dominance shift? How was she the lost puppy being dragged along, grudgingly turning and strutting to some insignificant man singing to his own beat?

She braced herself. This wasn't acceptable.

With a twirl of her own, she ended up behind him, hands flayed across his chest, she spun him to face her, one leg rose to pin him with her hips. Michael stopped humming. Eyes locked, she pushed him backwards with a hand at his neck, he slipped from her grip and took both her arms. He pulled them above her head, palms pressing, and forced her to the floor, one leg in a crouch, the one outstretched to the side. She twisted her torso, swinging the leg around to trip him, but with a rather balletic leap, Michael leapt, flanking her. Strong arms came from nowhere to lift her up. Instead of placing her on her feet, she felt herself pulled off them, over his shoulder – into the air. Facing up, she squeezed her eyes shut and plummeted.

Michael dropped her. She spun, like a figure skater doing a turn. He caught her. She straddled his stomach, face inches above his.

She panted, "Let's never do that again."

He smiled, lifted her thighs from his body and bodily threw her over his head, ducking as she landed in a crouch. With a growl, Nikita launched herself at him; he stalled her momentum, catching her above the waist and again, threw her into the air. This time she refused to be suspended, using his body as a pole, snaking down its length in a series of flips and slides. She slipped down onto the ground, moving through his legs and skid to the opposite wall. He shook his head, "Nikita..."

"You started this," she swivelled around and looked suspiciously up at the hand offered to her, "I never wanted to dance."

Taking the arm, she was already prepared when he attempted to throw slam over onto her back. He pulled, overbalancing as she took two swift steps forward and stepped off the bend above his knee, swinging around until she rode his neck, legs hanging down his chest. Michael winced, took the dangling menaces and pulled them apart so that she was in full split upon. Breath hitching, he noticed her lower them in a slow arc, until she was standing pressed up against his back. Her arms snaked around his neck, her mouth coming in close to the tender part beneath his ear.

He clenched a fist, nails digging into the flesh of his hand as he stayed perfectly still, ignoring the combined heat of their bodies.

"But since you asked so nicely," she whispered, moving with sensual movements, staring up through her lashes as one finger continued to trace its circular path across his skin as she walked to face him. The other hand came up and pressed on his chest. He took several steps backwards. Her feet followed him, never taking her eyes off his face. A left foot back, her right one followed, as if attached by a string. Her calf came up and rubbed the side of his leg. He couldn't handle it. The fingers unclenched and dug into her side, lifting her up slightly, she appeared to be walking on air – legs propelling with silent grace.

Nikita landed.

Backed against the terrace door, she looked up at the picture before her. There was something visceral and masculine, something a little false tango to imaginary music seemed to have ignited. He rested two hands on either side of her. Her eyes widened as the scruff edged closer. His legs fit between her own, every inch of their lower bodies in perfect alignment. Her eyes fluttered closed, mouth a fraction open. Instinctively, she licked her dry lips.

It sent him over the edge.

He pressed forward, chest bearing down on hers and moved in his head...

Just before they touched, the door gave way.

Toppling out into the open air, both blinked. Cold hit them, the heat draining from her body as quickly as it had come. Nikita felt every miniscule hair stand on end. Michael moaned out loud, leaning against the glass that had sabotaged his mission. The furious, guttural sound was lost on the wind. He sucked in its searing gusts, feeling like his organs would expand and die from the freeze. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his head and he wiped it away with clawing nails. His fingers shook.

"We should head back inside."

He couldn't bear to look at her, mutely re-entering into the room where the fries now sat cold.

Can't seem to hold you like I want to,

So I can feel you in my arms.

Nobody's gonna come and save you,

We've pulled too many false alarms.

MAY 1ST 2006

"_Darling, I hope you've had a lovely night?"_ came a sugary voice that drifted into his consciousness. Michael turned around, blinked then replied breathlessly, "It's been...an adventure."

"Oh listen to you," she ran a hand across his hairline, "It's like you've never been outside your stuffy office." At his expression she apologised, "I mean, I'm sure it's a lovely little office, but isn't this a thousand times more exciting?"

"I'd say the best is yet to come."

"What's that?"

He turned away, and realised what he'd been staring at while the company danced behind him. Of course, they were in the library. A library had books and this shelf was no different. The biggest one was a compendium of floral patterns and plant histories. Michael threw his bemused date a sorry look then hoped he didn't come off as too eccentric for reading books in the middle of the Met Ball. He _was_ supposed to be a weird fashion genius. In actual fact, he just needed something to busy his hands with. Ostentatiously flipping the pages as if there was actual purpose to the choice of literature, he happened across a picture of a small, non-descript flower. Its petals were delicately shaped and sparse, it lacked a large centre and grew upon a flowering tree.

_Nerium Oleander is a common garden plant, similar to the olive and as widely cultivated. Every part of this shrub is highly poisonous and if digested, will trigger cardiac arrest._

At Division, there are many ways to send a message. One could choose to attack an agent in hopes of conveying a warning. Or one could merely put appropriate name to a mission. Either way, that chosen message would be heard loud and clear: You are our creature.

And Michael could only stare.

"You've been dreaming with the books for long enough," Nikita came up beside him. "That Wintour woman is really something. I only just got away. Wish Stephen'd hurry up and give the signal for Phase 2 already..."

At the name, Michael nearly dropped the encyclopaedia. He roughly stuffed it back into its slot. The memory of their two dances still fresh in his mind, he turned and faced her, words spilling out faster than he could stay stop. "Look Nikita, I _have_ to know. Are you and Stephen – "

"Michael – "

"No, just hear me out. I make it my business to know my recruits. I mean, really get to know them. Because to make a good agent, you need to know what makes them go. So when Amanda started telling me these...theories, about two of my own people – it's like throwing me into a brick wall," he started to move in great agitation, "She does what she always does. She makes me second guess my methods by proving to me that I'm wrong. She basically told me that I don't know anyone of the people I spent a year training."

"That's the way Amanda works, she's really not trying to – "

He stepped closer, "Nikita. She made me think that I don't know you." She looked back wide eyed, "I _know_ you. I know I do. So just tell me now, if I've made a mistake, because it's better if it's all out in the open. I heard you two speaking in a corridor one time, and then Stephen starts dropping these hints, these bread crumbs, about some 'night', and then he _threatens_ me?! Just like a jealous man would."

"No, no," she moved backwards, "You've got it all wrong. That night...it's not what you think."

He locked his jaw, "Are you or are you not in a relationship with him?"

She opened her mouth, to explain the truth of a situation that had gone completely sideways. It wasn't some secret lover's story, as she was horrified he'd begun to believe, but a Division mission that Stephen had happened to walk in on. It was a mission she hadn't quite executed to brief. Something that might get her into serious trouble if her one witness spoke. And so she'd told Stephen that she'd pay his silence with her own.

After all, why was _Stephen_ there that night? No questions, that had been the deal.

"It was – "

Michael's intent gaze fractured, he reached for the Comm and pressed it reach into his ear. "Now? Right." He looked up, torn, "Operations just told me to find Marie."

Nikita crinkled her eyes, "So soon? I thought the plan was to disappear in the chaos after the shooting, not just leave the party?"

Michael rubbed his head, the turmoil inside his head starting to show. He scanned the crowd slowly, speaking even slower, "Marie's not leaving tonight."

"What do you mean?"

"The target's changed," he said, "Well, a target's been added – to be precise."

"_Added?_" said Nikita, "If Tiffane _and_ Marie are dead, then who inherits the company? Patrick?"

"My best guess is whoever ordered the hit. I didn't plan for this, don't look at me like that. Orders straight from Operations."

"Amanda?"

Michael pressed his lips, "Actually...Birkhoff."

Don't you think we ought to know by now?  
>Don't you think we should've learned somehow?<p>

My dear, we're slow dancing in a burning room.

APRIL 2006

The olive-skinned man sat with perfectly manicured hands in his lap. The suit breathed luxury, the devil-may-care hair recalled a playboy bachelor living off the family trust fund. Though his face was unlined, eyes bright, figure tight and toned, the roots near his scalp betrayed more years than what was initially apparent. Years of wealth and opportunity had helped this man age slowly and gracefully.

"Marie has hired you to kill her sister and brother-in-law?" he spoke with a slight accent. Percy nodded over his glass of cognac, "So she's finally making a move, taking the company into her own hands?"

"Little Marie? Hardly," Percy jeered, "She's been forced out of sheer necessity. Patrick's found out about her narcotics scheme going on behind their backs. He came across a wayward shipment that ended up at the factory with the rolls of silk instead of at the warehouse with the other pounds of cocaine."

"So that's how she did it. Smuggling it in with the materials for Tiffane's fashions. Cheap fabrics from South America, with an open route through the Columbian drug lords. Clever."

"Not clever. Getting caught. Careless."

The foreign man swirled his liquid and made an contemplative face, "If _we _were to take over said 'fashion business' – there would be no mistakes made."

"But dear Marie has already sent her deposit of $10 million US bills," Percy made a derisive face, "How will I live with myself it I were to, say, retract on her orders?"

"Percy doesn't take orders," the man replied scornfully, "At least that's what I've heard."

The one in question put down the liquor and leant forward on both elbows, pupils contracting, "I like your sources."

"Prove them accurate then. If you were to...aid me, and my...'company's' venture, I assure you that you will have free reign of the situation," the man gave a tiny smile, "And will be generously compensated for your efforts."

Percy stared him down with one eye, took out a pre-prepared contract with the other, "How much?"

"Double."

"350%. $35 million, no less."

"Twenty-five."

"Thirty."

The man carefully place the glass upon the designated coaster and picked up the Mont Blanc pen. He signed the document with a scrawl. "Pleasure doing business with you Percy."

"The same," he inclined his head and down the rest of the cognac with a sigh.

Just as the fellow was at the door, he adjusted his lapel and turned on an afterthought, "We never got to thank you, by the way, on your excellent handling of Victor Han. You know how much...bureaucracy would have occurred if he had fallen in the hands of your Americans."

Percy grinned again, "Ah, the start of our great partnership. Best career move I've ever made."

"The Triads are grateful. M goi saai."

"Kei doi gan nei gung zok."

We're going down and you can see it too.

We're going down,

And you know that we're doomed.

MAY 1ST 2006

"What do you mean we have to kill Marie as well?" Michael muttered, pushing through people.

"_Amanda just came in and went all Commando. Like, 'it's time to change the game' or something," _Birkhoff replied.

"But – " He spotted Tiffane again, "Hey!"

"Darling, where are you going?"

"Guess I'm just not used to being in...company."

Michael found himself carrying on a meaningless conversation, all the time drawing her away from all the guests – it was time to execute. Literally. From Division, Birkhoff juggled dozens of video feeds. Peering through the mob, he sought to find the other two targets, keeping one part of his consciousness focused on Michael and Tiffane. All he needed to do was to lure her into their green zone – she would be recruit Kelly's graduating kill. The hard part would be convincing Marie to follow him when she knew his real identity. The techie scanned the room from the ceiling angles, frustrated that he couldn't get a good look at people's faces.

Then he caught the movement. Stephen was leading Patrick out of the library to the part of the celebrations that overflowed into the adjoining galleries. The speed made them conspicuous.

"Stephen's leading him the wrong way – the kill spot's in the opposite direction."

"Should we tell him?" one of his drones offered.

He squinted at the two figures. They were visibly arguing. "No...he's not lost, he knows what he's doing. Keep a screen on him. One of you twerps get Amanda."

Then it happened.

Patrick yelled something at Stephen and decked him right in the face. As their agent struggled to his feet, Patrick bolted back towards the congregation he'd been dragged out of. He made a beeline for a small gathering in the north-west side of the library. Nikita was the first to react, she saw the spreading of the crowd a few precious seconds before the others and threw Anna Wintour into the civilians.

Patrick tumbled out of the gathering, pulled a firearm from his jacket and blasted.

With a running leap, Nikita tackled Percy and they thudded to the ground as the crowd that had gathered scattered with shrieks and screams. Marie broke from the group held at gun point but ran into Christian, who wrestled with the petit woman and pushed her to the ground. Stephen appeared, made to draw his own weapon and was faced with the metal right in his face.

"Glock, on the ground. Now!" Patrick roared.

Arms in surrender, the sidearm dropped with a clatter.

"What is this? What's going on?" Amanda stormed inside. Birkhoff stared at his own Operations regiment, all gaping at the screens. She took one look at the situation and took charge. "Percy is shot. Prep Medical. Activate the Extraction team on site and the next closest. Now!"

Nikita hovered over Percy, pulling off a piece of her dress and starting to wrap up the quickly spreading wound in his leg. Patrick began a stuttering monologue, shaking the gun at the group at his mercy. A second intruder appeared at the edge of the screen. Birkhoff recognised him.

"This is Birkhoff, are you seeing what I'm seeing?"

"_Yeah..._"

The sound alerted Patrick, who, interrupted – pointed the unsteady weapon and fired. Operations went into overdrive, air bristling with shock and anger, Amanda strode to the front of the room, turned her back on the panic that had erupted on screen and started prepping a kill-squad to be launched immediately. Senior agents were activated to corroborate cover stories for the chaos when local authorities arrived. Birkhoff was ordered to send the Met into lockdown. Fingers twitching, he hacked the security and watched as emergency sirens blared, the lights dimmed and secondary systems fired into action. Swirling masses of confused bodies filled most screens but it was the central one that drew all their eyes.

Two bodies huddled together on the floor. Nikita was shaking Michael senseless. Someone zoomed in unasked. Michael's eyes had rolled into the back of his head, a steady stream of blood flowed from his chest and stained her dress a deep red. She stared. They all stared. Then the firing happened. In the low-glow of the back-up generated lights, flashes of ignited gunpowder and ejected bullets flew like comets. The squealing of sliced air was replaced with the crash of exploding walls and shelves. Two lead balls exploded into Christian's chest. He toppled backwards, blood splattering all over Marie's dress as she escaped her captor and crawled on her belly towards the exit.

"Who are those agents?" Amanda cried at the black figures filling the feed. Kelly was in the corner, battling two men with her bare hands – screaming at the top of her lungs in a furious war-cry. Their skulls smashed together and she leapt over their lifeless corpses only to run into another armed man. Wade had taken a gun as was firing like the trapped man he was. Three men advanced on him. "Turn up the sound, let's hear what they're saying."

"_Где__Перси__?__"_

"_C__ексуальный __надо__его__."_

"_Но__где она?__!"_

"_дерьмо!__"_

Birkhoff frowned, "Russians?"

"Gogol."

No one had bothered to zoom back out of the original screen. As others struggled to carry out Amanda's orders, he found he was the only one staring at the spot where Nikita and Michael had been. Where had she gone? That, he didn't know. But the bigger question was whether Mikey, _their_ Mikey, had gone for good. In his mind, he could see Nikki shaking him, demanding him to wake up – over and over and over again. She'd just wanted him to wake up. But he hadn't.

It's not a silly little moment,

It's not the storm before the calm.

This is the deep and dying breath of,

This love that we've been working on.

* * *

><p><strong>Lyrics from "Slow dancing in a burning room" by John Mayer. The flashback is set in the real Stanford White Studio at The Lamb's Club in NY. Oh and Michael had the Vintage &amp; Cuvee de Prestige "Dom Ruinart" Rose 1996 magum bottle of champagne that cost Division $1145. In my mind, Nikita had a mojito.<strong>

**EDIT (18th April 2012): Oleander's a complete re-write so there's really no point in saying what I changed. _Points of interest,_** the Met Gala really WAS held on May 1st in 2006 and WAS in the Thomas J Watson Library. The layout of the museum, the rooms and pieces Stephen sees are all accurate and exist in real life. Prokofiev composed the score for Cinderella (Cinderella's Suite is the waltz). The Triad said to Percy "thank you" and Percy said "Look forward to working with you." The Russian at the end went: "Where's Percy?" "The hot one took him." "But where's she?" "Shit!" (I don't speak Chinese Cantonese or Russian so shoot me a message if grammar is wrong.)


	10. Oleander 4: Love The Way You Lie

"Michael! Michael!" the bullets brought her to her senses. "_Michael!_"

"Nikita, he's gone!" Percy yelled over the shots. "Complete the mission." She looked at the boss with barely concealed desperation, dug a hand into his neck and fought for a pulse. It was there, so small that she almost thought she'd imagined it – but there it was again. A weak, but clear, thump-thump. He was fading fast, and they were in the middle of a crossfire. "We have to get out!" Percy shuffled over, groaning, and took Michael's feet, pulling him towards the wall. Nikita carried his torso; they stayed low, almost crawling across the floor. The Gogol agents had swarmed the scene, outnumbering their team two to one. But their tactic advancement had been messy, with no formations and were easily flanked. They'd attempted to surround them, but failed to fill holes when one of their men fell.

Through one of these holes, Percy, Nikita and Michael escaped, making the door in heaves and gasps. Out of the library, the siren was louder and its shrillness reminded her that local police would be on them in moments. She dearly hoped this wouldn't turn into a hostage situation. She'd never dealt with one of those outside of training, and with the looks of things – Nikita assumed she was in charge. She hadn't seen Stephen since the firing began. His Glock had been on the ground last time she'd checked, chances were – he was already dead.

"Percy, stay here," she hushed, depositing them both in a room full of porcelain figurines. "Try and..."

The boss slid down a display cabinet, ashy pale but managing a wry smile, "I won't be going anywhere."

She undid her shoes and slipped them off, then took the knife tucked in beside her gun holster and began to hack at the immobilising train. Ripping open Michael's shirt, throwing aside his jacket, she struggled to wrap the fabric around the hole in his chest. At the sight of the damage, her hands began to shake uncontrollably. She couldn't control the hysteria that started to rise. There was just so much blood, so much torn flesh, streams of red running down his sides and stomach. Nikita stopped breathing, and went into shock.

Firm hands took the fabric from her fingers and finished the job, the red and gold cloth wrapped around and around. But no groans of pain, no flickering eyelashes showed any sign of revival. The place where the bullet had penetrated turned dark in a matter of seconds. Before her brain could even begin to register that she might lose him, a heavy fist slammed into the side of her head. The shock had already paralysed her system, the blow knocked her flat. Hitting the cool tiles, she wanted nothing more than to close her eyes and drift away. But the arm returned and pulled her face up.

She looked at him through a blurry film of sweat and unshed tears, limbs limp and fragile.

"I'm disappointed in you, Nikita," Percy said, almost enraged, and threw her to the floor again. She hit her head against a cabinet and crumpled. "Division trained you to be stronger than this. I have _wasted_ my time on you! Are you going to let Michael die in vain? While you sit there in a pathetic heap? Months of training and you fail under pressure! You are _nothing_ without his help."

Her eyes fluttered open, the image of the open wound flashed before her. Screams from the room. Gun shots of Gogol. A cacophony of sounds, split seconds each. Percy's fist. The open wound. Patrick firing the gun. Michael saying that Marie was the new target. Stephen's voice "I am in charge!" Michael asking, "_What _night?" The Gogol waiter. The open wound. More gun shots. Prokofiev. His lips against her neck. The smell of his skin, the scent of his cologne, Italian suit, wine upon his breath. The Stanford Studio. Russia. Op Lily. Screaming in her sleep, screaming in her dreams. Blood under her nails. The open wound. Percy yelling. _"Stephen?! What are you doing in Paris? Why are you here?"_ Ramon. _"Follow your orders, that's what slaves do."_ Bushkenov's headless body. Musk scented folders. Amanda's office. The journal of sketches. The sound of a Midtown dawn, the city waking up below her penthouse loft. Coffee beans boiling in the morning. A pain, like scorching wildfire, hunger for a drug she'd long stopped craving. More screaming. _"As long as you keep her away from peanut products."_ The baby and the bomb. Caroline's sharp slaps. The taste of salt tears. The smell of a gun. Michael humming La Cumparsita. Michael brushing her hips as he taught her how to aim a sniper. Michael yelling at her to focus. Michael pushing her to the wall. Michael brushing her hair back and saying it would be alright. Michael near tears. The sound of Elizabeth and Hayley's names on his lips. _"I would rather a thousand faceless men die than lose you."_ Prokofiev.

The open wound.

Patrick's smoking gun. Anna Wintour in her taffeta and tulle. Canapés. _"Blackmail?"_ Prokofiev. Wrapping the sash around Percy's leg. Sirens blaring. Sirens screaming. Sirens whirring. Men blasting. Russian. "_Иди, иди__, иди__! __Убей их всех__!"_ The weight of the Romanian bullet. Gogol. The open wound.

"...stronger than this" "..._wasted_ my time!" "...Months of training." "...you are _nothing_." "You are _nothing_!" "YOU ARE _NOTHING_!"

"NOOOOOOOOO!"

Nikita barely registered that she was yelling. "NO! NO!" The open wound. Michael's lips, a touch of velvet, a taste of heaven.

_ARE YOU GOING TO LET MICHAEL DIE IN VAIN?! _

"_NOOOOOOOOO!"_

She pulled out her Vector just as female figure crawled around the corner on her stomach. Nikita fired five bullets into her skull.

Marie didn't see her killer.

Just gonna stand here and watch you burn.

Birkhoff swallowed. "Holy mothership. _Nikki_."

Amanda strolled over, watching the unfolding drama with sparkling eyes. Her chest heaving, hands clenched in two tight balls, urging her student on, "Yes. Yes!" She turned to Birkhoff with a savage smile. "And her name is Nikita, Seymour. Agent Nikita."

But it's alright because I love the way it hurts.

Kelly and Wade battled.

The enemy agents were undertrained. Not as polished as the two Division assets, who ducked and parried despite having been disarmed. They fought back to back, a Gogol assassin each. From fourteen down to two, that was impressive and both soared with the knowledge that they were superior fighters. Kelly lashed out again, playing the defensive and hoping to tire out the young Russian. He lunged with the dagger but overbalanced. She took the moment of weakness and twisted his outstretched arm with a crack, then chopped down with the side of her hand, snapping the bone with a sound that echoed for two beats. The man fell to the ground, howling in pain, only just managing to throw himself out of the way of her foot. His shins were spared but in his dodge, forgot to take the knife. She bent down and grabbed the tip, flipping it through the air like a throwing star, it embedded itself just south of the fatal jugular. Instead, his good hand grasped hopelessly at the silver thing that sticking out between his collar – voicelessly feeling the burgundy liquid that had started to seep. His eyes bulged and he reached out an arm, silently pleading with her to end his pain.

Kelly looked at the horror in his face, as he realised death wouldn't come for another twenty, gruesome minutes. The blood would slowly trickle into his lungs, ultimately drowning him in a prolonged agony that only a bullet could relieve. She faltered, finding herself reaching for the firearm of one of his dead comrades. She cocked the weapon and aimed it at his skull.

Before she could complete the mercy killing, a strangled sound came from behind her. Wade was clutching at his throat, a fountain of red paint spurting from between his fingers. His assailant shook out his dripping weapon and with a face of steel, stuck it deep into his stomach, twisting the metal with relish. As he spent an extra few seconds tearing her fellow recruit's flesh, she took the opportunity to place a bullet through his chest. The Gogol agent fell with a look of horrified shock upon his face, still have twisted with lingering sadistic relish.

"You bastard..." Kelly stood above his dying figure. "Cволочь! Гореть в аду..."

Then looking over to her own assailant, still begging for his release. She wavered for only a moment. An eye for an eye. Gogol tormented Wade, she would torment him.

Kelly hurried searched the piles of human debris for a sign of her target. No. Tiffane Culotte, Michael's annoyingly shrill date, was still alive somewhere. The suffocating Gogol agent stared at his one hope running from him. Wade writhed on the floor several feet away. Body twitching, blood flowing out the side of his mouth – he edged towards a pistol, fingers stretching for its barrel. Clamping around the tool, he lifted it shakily to his head, having lost almost all control of his tormented body. Eyes squeezed shut.

He pulled the trigger.

Kelly turned around at the shot, saw the weapon drop from his hand and swallowed. Picking up the Zastava she'd been forced to sacrifice, she bolted into the gallery and winced as the speakers made her ears pop.

"This is Kelly. All Gogol agents have been neutralized! Now searching for target!"

Amanda replied, _"She's with the other guests in the Met Store. Use. Caution."_

"Gotcha!"

She looked at the blood and other human projectile splattered down her dress. It was hideous. Running back into the library, she reached Christian's body and removed his suit. Muttering a quick apology and closing his eyes, she threw the oversized thing on and was glad to see it covered the majority of her wreckage. Splatter still stained the front of his but most had landed on his tie and it was still in better condition than whatever Wade's would be in.

She began to navigate the many rooms between her and the store. Surely it couldn't be far. If a horde of headless chickens had managed to make their way there, a trained Division operative could. After walking down a long corridor lined with ancient stone tablets, she turned into what seemed to be a cavern. It reminded her of the space under a bridge, with brick arches. But the store was nowhere to be seen. The memory of the layout was failing her, the constant ringing making her head spin.

"Operations?" she cried.

"_Yo Kells, you don't wanna go up those stairs. Take the gallery in front of you, turn right and head back out to the foyer. Towards the membership desk." _

Scrambling into the Great Hall, she pressed herself against a wall, the soaring ceilings and wide expanses sending her senses tingling. There would be no cover. She rubbed along, feeling as if her head was a windvane in a tempest. She thought she saw a man to her left, her head whipped around, then there was a shadow back to the right, she turned, something behind her, she pivoted, a sound back at the front, she twisted. Forcing shaken nerves onwards, she didn't stop creeping forward until the sounds of frightened women penetrated her haggard heartbeats. But before she could advance further, movements through the front doors caught her eyes. Kelly retreated back into the shadows.

Gun levelled, she wondered if she'd imagined it – but through the slit in the glass panes, she saw a crowd gathering outside the museum. Flashing red and blue lights showed that the police where already there. They seemed more preoccupied with keep the throng of paparazzi back than attempting to enter the building. Ambulances could be seen peeking over the headings of the jostling men, women and children. Then as if from nowhere, two dark vans whipped around the corner, the sound of their tires scorching the road preceding them. The east side of the crowd only just parted in time. Two dozen men in full Hazchem gear, toting guns three times bigger than her head pushed to the front. Their commander flashed a badge but she already recognised the team.

"Birkhoff, the Feds are here!"

"_Keep to mission,"_ Amanda ordered.

Kelly hesitated a moment, just catching the NYPD step aside and the FBI start attempting to break the through the computerised locking system of the front door.

"_Those losers are _nothing_ on Shadow walker."_

She stepped into the store. Several people screamed and the room split in half. They shuffled aside, compressing like a tin of sardines. The men attempted to shield the ladies with their arms. As if that would do them any good if she actually started blasting, Kelly thought. She took several slow steps forward, watching in fascination as the congregation curved and waved, giving her three feet of space at all times. Her personal sphere carved through the staring and the sobbing, seeking the head of her unfortunate target.

Hitching the gun into a more comfortable position, there was an outburst and she realised that they'd thought she was about to fire. Someone stepped in front of her path and she raised her eyebrow at him.

"Don't shoot! Please, just let us go! Please!" he yelled and pointed to the police across the hall from her.

"Yeah, good luck getting through the door!" she screamed back. "_God!_ Birkhoff! Can't you turn that fuc – "

"_Hold up, recruit! No need to scream bloody murder!"_

"I can't even hear my own voice! Turn off the siren!"

"_Hey lady! I'm a little busy tryna hold off the Feds from busting in there and arresting yo ass!"_

"TURN IT OFF YOU SAD EXCUSE – !"

"_Okay! Okay! You could've just said 'please', woman."_

The sudden silence made her spin. She felt like one of her childhood bullies had just boxed her ears and stuck her head in a dryer. A ruffle of fabric, someone dropped their champagne glass and a low sound of a man's voice reassured a hiccupping lady. Kelly ignored the faint ring inside her lobes and realised she was breathing rather heavily. The man remained standing frozen in front of her. She stared. He stared. He looked at her left hand. She looked at her left hand.

Unaware, she'd taken out a dagger and had apparently been waving it manically at the top corner of the room. It's point glinted, someone's orange sequins made it flare like a torch. She rolled her eyes and glowered at the man inside the security camera, flipping the scalpel-sharp object over the back of her knuckles and taking a step forward. The man continued to look at it.

"Hey Mister, don't beware the knife – beware the gun," she waved the Zastava at him and used it to shove him out of her way. He jumped at the touch and shuffled backwards in a frenzy. The staring didn't stop there. Everyone had a different part of her they seemed unable to look away from. Some gaped at the blood smeared across her face, a fact she wasn't aware of. Others looked at her stained jacket and wondered what other horrors it was covering. Many glared at the gun as if their combined looks could disable it. But most focused on the knife, which she was now carelessly brandishing to spread the crowd as she twisted through the throng looking for Culotte.

"Hey Operations, came I have a little help here," she muttered, quickly realising that if Tiffane had any brains, she'd just keeping moving to a part of the crowd she'd already searched. No answer was forthcoming. "Fine. Go on and sulk," believing Birkhoff's ego was unwilling to provide her help after the outburst.

Kelly could not know that over in another part of the museum, other events of a more drastic nature were claiming the attention of all in Division.

Stephen was sprinting. Without the screaming of the horns, he could now hear only his footsteps as they thudded on tiles in some rooms and became muffled on the carpet in others. Grasping at the edges of his training, he heard Amanda's voice telling him to breathe through his nose, control the adrenaline – and fear – and channel it somewhere productive. Like through the trigger of a handy firearm.

But that was the problem. He had no handy firearm.

Patting himself down again, he felt naked. Exposed. The empty thing clutched in his right hand could be of no use to him now. The knife in his other would be equally pointless if Patrick shot him before he could throw it. The rooms started to meld into one ongoing path of familiarity. This felt like one of those nightmares where he found himself in a maze, never able to escape, running from an unknown danger with nothing but the wind in his legs, he ducked into an alcove, back pressed against the wall – ears straining for some sound.

It was all too quiet.

His tread had sounded like the march of the Mongol army. Why was there no sound of his pursuer? The agitated Patrick hadn't seemed like much of a soldier. He'd shot Michael just because Michael had surprised him, yet here Stephen was, straining his ears for a sound of the fashion mogul. Where had he learnt to step so softly that even highly sensitive Division ears could pick up the signs?

Stephen replayed the scene inside his head again.

Nikita and Michael had been spinning each other around the room, to the oohs and aahs of the brainless bunch. He'd slipped away, pushed through several enthralled guests until he'd broken out of the viewer's circle. A waiter offered a bite-sized something and he took it, thinking the food would settle his tumultuous stomach. Small groups of people stood around chatting, others admired the exhibitions. Then he'd spotted the man.

Patrick turned around, his blue eyes piercing. Stephen stepped between a couple and started a conversation, hoping he hadn't spooked Nikita's target. The pair looked at him strangely but went along with his numerations that popular music these days was a scar on the face of humanity's artistic culture – or something. A new song came over the speakers and the guests excused themselves, taking each other's arms and starting a dance of their own. All around him dissolved into waltz.

Glancing over his shoulder, Stephen tried to look for Nikita's figure. So they'd finished their little roll about the hay. All the more urgent for him to get to Patrick. If Nikita got to her target first, there was nothing he'd be able to do.

"I can't help but get ze feeling you're looking for me," came a chill voice from behind him. Stephen knew it was irrational to fear someone marked for dead but this man made his insides squirm. Everything from his icy stare to the dove-grey suit to the way he articulated every syllable like he was on a stage and reciting Shakespeare, unnerved him.

"Ah," said Stephen, "Mr Patrick Culotte."

"Monsieur Patrick Quinon." He sniffed, "I prefer not to go by my wife's maiden name."

Stephen silently smacked himself, "Yes Sir, ben sur."

"It's 'bien sûr'," he was corrected, "Your partner speaks much better French. Perhaps she is in Paris more often than you?"

"Well, she's a smart girl. Picks up things quicker than I do," he said.

"Or maybe she is the one who usually does ze Gogol surveillance."

"Excuse me?"

"Je sais son identité! Je sais pour qui tu travailles! Tu ne seras pas me tuer, _ce soir_!" Eyes narrowed, Stephen dug out his Comm. This was one conversation he didn't wanted Division overhearing.

"Je ne vous comprends pas! You know who I am? Who are _vous?!_" He attempted to pull Patrick away from where roaming ears could catch on.

Patrick resisted, "You were ze man who did Reconnaissance on Gogol in Paris last year, non?"

"Ouais, but..."

"Je répète, you will not kill me _tonight!" _

"I'm not trying to kill you! I'm trying to _save_ you. Come with me, vous-venez, I know a place, une chapelle where you can stay until Division's team is gone. I'll tell them, je vais leur dire, that you're dead. That I killed you!" Stephen desperately explained, "Mais, actually you will still be alive and you can then walk away."

Patrick shook his head, "Zat is not what they told me."

"Qu'est-ce qu'ils vous dire?" Stephen looked at him in confusion, the burner phone being true to its name – burning a hole in his pocket. He could still hear that man's voice giving him his orders. "You've been speaking to Gogol? Why? How do you even _know_ about Gogol, or Division?"

The man ignored the stuttered questions. "They told me zat you were told to kill me, and my wife. Even though it was _my wife _who hired your Percy man. Because Percy is withzout honneur and withzout class. He is working with ze Azian Traids, simply because they pay him more money. We will all die tonight."

Stephen attempted to quell the thousands of questions that jumped to his tongue. Who was this man? "But you see. I'm with Gogol! I'm not with Percy, I'll help get you out tonight. I promise. Je vous promis, je promis."

The Frenchman snorted, "They told me you would say zat. Zat you would pretend to lead me to safety but zen shoot me anyway and tell Gogol zat it was an accident, zat you did it in self-defence, because you are all so scared of Percy to disobey him."

He stared at the man and hoped that it had just been a lucky guess. Had he really been that transparent? He attempted to salvage the situation, continuing to drag the stubborn man over – wishing more than ever that he could just take out the Glock and blow the guy's brains out now. "Regardez-moi, it's true that my Division orders were to kill you. But like you said, in Paris, while doing Recon...Gogol, I'm loyal to _them_ now! They never told me you...knew them, but they told me to protect you. And I will!"

"And you will betray your American friends?" Patrick looked doubtful. Stephen was grasping at straws, "Absolutely. Certainement."

Patrick seemed to x-ray him with those thin, strangely opaque retinas. He brushed the cuffs of his jacket and then gave a distinctly French shake of his head. "You are a terrible liar. You had ze look of an animal from ze moment I saw you."

"That's not true."

"You have," Patrick gestured to his face with long, spindly fingers, "le visage d'un chasseur, comme un guépard dans un smoking."

"What?"

"Le visage of, what you call, a hunter..."

"The face of a hunter...like a cheetah smoking?"

"Like a cheetah in a suit – les americains call it ze tuxedo," Patrick lowered his voice, if possible, the disdain increased, "But you do not know, that ze cheetah, it is fast as wind, true, but is not strong like le lion or ze wolf. When faced with danger, l'inconnu, it is designed to run – not to fight. When faced with danger, ze coward _flees._"

Stephen pressed his face forward, all caution flying out the window, "You can call me whatever you like you son of a bitch. But the case still stands as this, your wife dies, _ce soir_ – as you would say. You _will _join her. Unless you come with me."

"You threaten Tiffane?"

"Oh brother, we are so far beyond threatening."

Patrick flared his nostrils.

Stephen suddenly felt the momentum shift. He grinned, "Do you know who Division's sent to kill Tiffane? Her name is Nikita. She'll skin your lovely little wife with her teeth."

Spittle landed on Stephen's face and his target was gone, pushing back through the crowds towards the library. Simmering in anger, he brushed a sleeve across his face and yelled, "Who is the coward now! Who is flees now!" Then things had spiralled out of control. Somewhere along the way, he'd dropped the precious ear bud that linked him to Division. Gogol had appeared, alarms went off, people scattered like colourful hundreds and thousands. In the chaos, Stephen ran, scanning the ground for the lifeline Comm. But soon, the searching had turned into a full out race for his life. Patrick followed on his heels. Back through the cloisters, the columns provided the perfect place for a shoot-out.

Until he ran out of bullets. One gun after another emptied their cartridges.

And now here he was, catching his breath in an alcove, straining his ears for a sound of the poncy Frenchman who chased him screaming allegories and accused him of making chestnuts with cat's paws or something along those lines. His French comprehension skills were rocky at best, whilst dodging bullets, they were almost non-existent.

Eyes falling on a pretty brass pocket watch behind the class cabinet, he was reminded of the time. How long had it been since the lockdown had started had? He was surprised no one had stormed the museum yet. Or perhaps it was simply his life-threatening turn of events that made every second feel like an eternity. Forehead pressed against the glass to cool his system, he read the sign attached to the little display. It was a piece by watchmaker Michael Nouwen.

Michael.

Last he had seen, Michael was lying in a pool of his own blood. That was before the lights flickered and dimmed and the shooting had started. He vaguely wondered if his teacher was still alive. A dash of remorse came and went, it couldn't be good karma to have the last thing a dying man remembered of you being your attempt at blackmail. Though to be honest, he'd never have had the gall to see it through. All he'd wanted was for Michael to convince Percy to put him on Yellow inactive statue – just until Gogol got off his heels. Just a little favour to ask.

Patrick was wrong, Stephen wasn't the hunter here, he was the prey.

If the français didn't die, Percy would have him strung up. On the other hand, if he_ did_ die, Gogol would put a bullet through him. He couldn't see how he could make the situation work. Division wanted him dead. Gogol wanted him alive. Patrick's revelations had blown his old plan out of the water : kill him in the chapel, complete Division's mission and say to Gogol that one of the recruits got their gun at the man before he could come to the rescue.

And they'd have to understand that he couldn't hover around him all night without raising suspicions. Stopping said recruit would have blown his cover.

But no.

Now, the man he was bound to protect was attempting to kill him (for good reason seeing as he _had _planned to frame his murder on someone else, but still, _he_ wasn't supposed to know that. How had he known that ? How had Gogol foreseen that ? How did Gogol know anything, about Percy and the Triads, about extra money ? Was it true that Marie was targetted to. He could have sworn they were supposed to protect Marie Culotte.)

"Bonjour my friend," Patrick said, cocking the gun. Stephen stiffened and raised his hands in the expected surrender. "And au revoir – "

"You shoot him, you die."

Both men turned to look at their new companion. Nikita had her Vector aimed cleanly at his chest. Her dress was torn at the hems, eyes made ghastly from the dark makeup that had smudged its way around. Her skin was so pale it glowed with a ghostly sheen.

"_You_, you must be the famous Ni-ki-ta." said Patrick. "Let me introduce myself, my name if Monsieur Quinon, I dezign clothes and protect my wife."

"Pleasure to meet you. My name is Nikita, I kill people and avenge my friends."

"Zen why do I still stand?"

She lowered the weapon a fraction of an inch and thought for a moment. "Because I want to see you suffer. Oeil pour oeil, so to speak."

"I did not mean to shoot your partner. He surprised me, ze gun discharged on its own," he blinked innocently.

Nikita sneered, "That's like saying bad luck starts wars and a stabbed man slipped on a banana peel and fell on a knife."

"Exactement."

"You LIAR!" she roared, "I don't know who you are, I don't know who you work for. But you are not a 'st...stu...stuttering fool'. You played the victim! You made us believe you were confused and lost. But when you showed up and shot Percy, you knew _exactly_ what you were doing. And when you pointed the gun at...when you...tu fils de pute, je te coupera en mille morceaux et alors, je vais obtenir ta femme et lui faire de te regarder mourir!"

"Have you no conscience?"

"L'enfer est pavé de bonnes intentions."

"But once you get there, I hear it sucks all the same," Patrick said, his french accent dropping off like a stone. Suddenly he was British. "Let's try this again, my name is Pat Keenan. I design clothes and spy on my wife's sister."

"Hi," she said, "My name is Nikita. I kill people and avenge my friends."

He chuckled, placing two fingers over the end of her gun, "You're a little tour de force, aren't you?"

Nikita bit the inside of her mouth until it bled. His sleazy voice, slicked hair, it all made her skin crawl, "You are a damn good actor."

"I think so," he smirked.

She shook her head, "No, what I mean is, you're a good _French _actor playing someone else. If you're really British my name's not Nikita."

"You don't believe him?" Stephen said.

"And you do?"

He silence revealed he was just as confused as she was. Nikita refocused her attention at her victim at gunpoint, "Explain yourself."

"I'm Interpol. And I've been working for years to crack the British narcotics underground," he looked between the two agents, "Tiffane Culotte was just my cover. We've had intel that Marie was running things. I was sent in to investigate. Believe me." Nikita continued to stare down her barrel. "Nikita, believe me. I was born in Brum, my parents are Alicia and Peter Keenan. I went to Handsworth Grammar, then QMUL. Joined the organisation in my late twenties and got posted as part of the Tiffane-Laure-Culotte Dream fashion house four years and 7 months ago."

"Did you get that?"

"Come again?"

"Not you," she spat at the con artist, "Birkhoff, in Patrick's file, isn't there a picture of him meeting Tiffane in a kind of bar in Paris?"

"_Hold on," _he said, _"Yeah...why?"_

"Doesn't the time stamp say June 1998?"

"_Er... right on ball. Wait a minute, that's more than 55 months."_

She reloaded her gun, "Exactly."

Patrick's bizarre eyes wavered and he swallowed heavily, staring down the barrel and taking several steps back. She scoffed, "Your story doesn't match up."

"I got the dates a little wrong!"

"There's a big difference between five years and eight," she said, "Even an Interpol agent should be able to figure that one out." Patrick backed up some more, until he felt the jab of Stephen's gun at his back. He pursed his lips and grimaced. "What do you plan on doing with me?"

"You are my target."

"A chicken is a bird. Red is a colour. English is a language. You'll have to be more specific darling."

"Call me 'darling' again and I'll cut your head off."

"Seeing as I'm as good as dead, that's not much of a threat. _Darling_."

She whipped him with her metal and he fell to the floor. A large purple bruise sprouted on that aristocratic forehead. Her finger planted firmly on the trigger, there was just one last thing she needed to ask him. "I know that Percy was _your_ target. But was Michael?"

Looking up with an arm over his forehead, "He was asking for it."

"HE WASN'T EVEN ARMED!"

"You're telling me a Division agent wasn't armed?"

"HE DIDN'T REACH FOR A GUN! You murdered a defenseless man."

"It's not my fault he wasn't ready."

She readied the gun again, "But you still killed my partner."

"Accidents happen."

There was a moment of stinging silence then Nikita nodded, "Well, I shot Marie."

Patrick glared at her with his blazingly blue eyes, "How am I going to get details from her now?"

Wordlessly, she stepped aside, the gun dropping with her arm. Patrick got groggily to his feet and watched as Nikita silently allowed him passed, Stephen followed in confusion. She waved him forward, whispering, "You're alpha, you decide what we do next," rather aggressively.

Just gonna stand here and watch you cry.

Birkhoff turned to Amanda. "Patrick lied." She turned a passionless face towards him. "Stephen is _with_ him." She continued to stare at him. "Uh hello? Stephen's out of bullets and he was trying to kill our agent five minutes ago. Now they're all like, buddies or something. What the hell's going on?"

She showed him her back, "Don't you have FBI agents to hold off?"

But that's okay because I love the way you lie.

Nikita herded Patrick forward, padding barefoot through the exhibition rooms, her earpiece buzzing with mostly unintelligible sound. She wondered who was still alive. The eerie UV glow around them made her see shapes in shadows where there were none. At the taste of blood, she stopped biting in the inside of her lip.

"So..." Patrick sang.

"Shut up," Nikita jabbed him between his shoulder blades.

"Division does exist," he ignored her warning and mused out loud, "We've been keeping tabs on Gogol for years now. It was only when we saw your charming friend here doing some surveillance that we grew suspicious of the possibility an opposing black Ops group."

"Shut your mouth," said Stephen, his face beet red.

"Does Percy know you're loyal to Gogol now? Don't think he'd like that very much...what did they say to you when they caught you spying on them?"

Nikita couldn't suppress the bud of curiosity inside her. She fought with herself for a moment, then dug out the earpiece and threw it unceremoniously into one of the museum bins before saying, "What did they say?"

He gave her a look of bitter hatred. She brushed her hair out of her face and tapped Patrick, who'd stopped walking and glanced back in amusement, to keep him moving.

"I thought we'd spoken about this. No questions and I won't tell Percy about _your_ blunder that night."

She laughed, a frozen, tight sound. It reverberated around the silent rooms. "For months, you've acted like you own me, holding that over my head. But you know what, Division isn't here – and I finally want some answers. Why were you in Paris when you were supposed to be in Romania?"

Stephen glanced at Patrick but the Brit gave him a nonchalant smile that didn't reach his blue eyes, "Don't mind me. I'm just your prisoner."

"They caught me."

"You failed a Recon?" Nikita said disbelievingly, "That's a first."

"A _Gogol_ Recon," he said quickly, pride overpowering any need for secrecy, "And you didn't even know who they were until Michael and I told you after they attacked you in your own apartment."

Nikita hissed, "I know them perfectly well now, given that I dragged a dead man through their ranks while you ran like a coward. And I told you, Division attacked me, and framed this Gogol group."

"Always so sure about herself."

"You mean, someone from inside Division gave Gogol my address? Because if that's the case, my top suspect at the moment would be you."

The glared daggers at each other. A display of medieval weapons opened out before them. Brass and copper and roughly hewn pieces of metal glinting dulling from their stands. "Fine. Division attacked you, if that gives you any comfort – not that it should, by the way."

"What happened?"

"I was in Romania. Got caught. They tied me up and said that I just had to do two things for them and they'd let me go free," he said softly, ashamed. "Firstly, to give them intel on the mission that Percy was coming out into the field for."

"And the second?"

Stephen was silent. Patrick quipped, "I think, darling, he was told to spy on your pretty self."

In a flush of fury, Nikita kicked Stephen in the stomach and sent him plummeting backwards into a display case. In her moment of distraction, Patrick whipped around and grabbed the barrel of her Vector, yanking it from her shocked fingers. He flipped it into a comfortable position and began blasting at the glass cases and sprinting away. She attempted to follow, but the shattering droplets made it impossible for her to open her eyes. When she unwrapped her forearms from her head, her target was gone.

Filled with anger at herself, she grabbed one of the ancient spears and a large lance. They felt alien in her hands, and she struggled to keep balance as she bolted around the corner in pursuit. Stephen drew up quickly near her, her breath coming out in shallow gasps, clutching the place on his abdomen she'd hit.

"I'm sorry!" he gasped, "I never told them anything important!"

She screamed in frustration, "You followed me to Paris! Was that the man I saw next to you, then? A Gogol drone?"

"Look, I was just meant to lead him there and then say," he took several heavy breaths, "that's what you look like. It wasn't anything big!"

"You coward!" she raced up flights of stairs, following her instinct as to where her rabbit could have hopped to. "You should have died rather than make a deal with the enemy!"

"They wanted me to save Patrick," he choked out, "But I was going to kill him anyway, _disobey_ them! I'm loyal to Division!"

Nikita hit the top of the stairs before him and wheeled around, staring him down as he struggled up the steps. Heaving with strain, sweat glistening, glowing with the light of the emergency flares, blood all over her chest, she roared curses at him and threw her spear at his head. It hit him in the shoulder and Stephen tumbled backwards down the steps, his head making contact with the golden banisters, body coming to a twisted halt at the bottom with a sickening thud.

"Bravi," a voice came from behind her, Nikita twisted around, an insane expression on her face. "Bravissimi. Very good."

"Did you see the way he folded under the pressure?" she said softly, trembling from head to toe.

Patrick advanced upon her, holding out two arms. In a daze, Nikita dropped the lance in her other hand, letting it fall to the ground with a clunk. She could barely breathe through the lump in her throat. The slow-motion capture of Stephen's body falling with her weapon sticking out of his chest replaying in her mind. She would faint, she was sure of it.

Piling herself recklessly into Patrick's chest, she went very still as he embraced her, a tickling sensation of his breath against her neck. Her Vector still gripped in his hand. She could feel the gun upon her back, where his arms held her there.

"What happened in Paris that stopped you from reporting Stephen straight away?" Patrick whispered softly.

She took a raspy breath, "I couldn't execute target. He saw me hesitate. I lied to Percy afterwards, said that I took him alive because I thought he'd have information."

"But it was really because you didn't have it in you to kill him."

Nikita nodded against the hollow of his neck and collarbone, inhaled something familiar upon him. Sweat, and rust and steel. He smelt of a place she knew better than her own hands and tears began to well up in her eyes. Uncalled for tears of shock and relief and horror. _Of course..._

"You're not Interpol," she said quietly, "Or Gogol."

"I didn't think you'd buy that," Patrick said slowly, his careful Birmingham accent falling away at every syllable.

Nikita sighed, and moved her hand to his ear, where a familiar earpiece fell into the palm of her hand. She pushed him away a few inches, his arms still around her waist and held up the tiny bug, "You're Division."

I can't tell you what it really is,

I can only tell you what it feels like.

And right now it's a steel knife in my windpipe.

Percy had his hand to his ear, focusing on the conversations that filtered through. Patrick was a splendid actor, a real genius with his tone and his inflections. When he was French, he sounded like a Parisian, with just enough flounce and just enough panache to seem a bite superior and a little eccentric. When he was British, he sounded like he'd been born and bred on fish and chips, bangers and mash and Indian takeout, slightly reserved, civil with a down to earth sincerity to become an undercover Interpol officer.

Now he sounded like a Southerner. Still not his real voice, Percy new. The prince of disguises, Patrick faded into an accent Nikita could identify with Division. Sure, they had their ethnicities and immigrants, great for stationing abroad, but most were from North America and her subconscious made the easy connection. Percy, with no feed to go with his sound, could not know that Nikita had worked it out without the nudge.

With some surprise, he heard her say softly, directly into the earpiece, _"I'm sorry for disappointing Percy."_

He gave her a brisk nod that she would never see and looked at the man beside him. Michael was barely breathing, his bloodied chest rising and falling in small gasps. With a sigh, he reached into his other ear and said, "Amanda, activate phase 2."

* * *

><p><strong>Lyrics from "Love the way you lie" by Eminem, feat. Rihanna. Oh and I just realised Oleander could have been its own companion piece. I'll be four days before I update because I'm off to a Harry Potter marathon (ending with DH Part 2 at midnight! Woot! Go Australia for early screening!) and a sleepover. Sorry!<strong>

**EDIT (17th Sept 2012): **So the Stephen/Nikita storyline draws to a close. Ish. During her breakdown, Nikita hears the Russian words "Go, go, go! Kill them all!" Kelly says in Russian, "Bastard! Burn in hell!" Nikita says in French, "you son of a bitch, I will cut you into a million pieces and force your wife to watch while you die." and then says, "The road to hell is paved with good intentions."


	11. Oleander 5: You Know My Name

If you take a life do you know what you'll give?

Odds are, you won't like what it is.

Kelly started to bodily shove guests out the door. The store had two entrances and she'd barred the front (closed to the encroaching FBI) with a stainless steel hat stand. Now she was at the other end, forcing guests to file out one by one. Looking at their terrified faces as they passed her, she shooed them with a gesture of her knife and had her Zastava held snugly in her armpits.

"You will not get away with this," an elderly man hissed at her. She merely gave him a beaming smile and poked him with her gun. He scurried off with a scowl.

Kelly wondered just how many guests there were. So many of these faces were unrecognisable in their smudged make up and wayward hair. A famous singer hobbled past her, still stubbornly wearing her heels despite the snot dripping off her face. The Division recruit smirked, for all their celebrity and money, they were frightened of a nameless piece of street trash.

_Not anymore_, she thought triumphantly.

For the first time, she started to understand how Nikita could stroll around with that kind of untouchable aura when every recruit knew the gossip about her. She'd be a drug addict, killed a cop, was on death row. Not the prettiest slate, and filed under confidential, but when one was Division's love child – nothing about her was really private. She was just as tragically flawed and morally innocuous as the rest of them and Kelly had always begrudged her straight back and high chin – as if she had the right to act so grand.

But now, leaning casually against the door frame, Christian's suit hanging off her own incredibly proud shoulders, her dress starting to reek from human innards and dried blood, she could empathise. The guests would have overpowered in a second if they dared to. But they didn't.

With a simple cocky grin, a harsh stare, a cutting word here or there – these people bowed to her every whim. What power, what entitlement they had, their luxury and their fans and their independence and freedom seemed laughable. What good was all that when she, even she, just a lonely girl from New Jersey, could command them like a queen. Of course, she would hold her head up high. No need to be ashamed of a past when she could get Ralph Lauren to quake under her gaze or turn Madonna into a stuttering pile of satin and spandex.

"Move it," she yelled in glee, "I haven't got all day."

The crowd increased its speed, three or four people squeezing out past her at a time, their heads lowered and spirits crushed. Then she saw it. Furthest away from her, on the opposite door frame, Tiffane Culotte rushed past and made a run for it. Kelly brushed aside her epiphany and sprinted after her.

Her eyes were glued to her target's voluminous skirts. Kelly chased her, surprised at Culotte's speed. She must have removed her ridiculous shoes. Digging in her own feet and kicking off harder, Kelly increased her speed with a spurt of power and almost caught up when a siren went off. It made her hesitate a fraction of a second and move her ear to her Comm, waiting to hear an order.

This siren was different. It didn't seem to fill the entire museum with body-racking shrieks. Her mind still wondering what this new development was, she only just noticed where Culotte was running. She'd made a U-turn and headed back towards the foyer.

Kelly couldn't skid to a halt fast enough and tumbled into the open. No cover. She swore. Culotte and her petticoats rushed into the hands of the police, who bundled her up and rushed her outside. Kelly swore again, louder.

"Hands up!" several barrels were pointed in her direction. She grimaced and set down the Zastava, feeling empty without its weight. "The knife! Put _down_ the knife!"

"You don't have to yell," she muttered and dropped the thing at her feet, her hands rising reluctantly above her head, eyes darting in search of cameras. But the soaring roof was much too high above her. The glaring lights from the outside and the torches that were being shone to blind her made her sees stars. She squinted at her captors with their solemn faces and felt like laughing at them.

Two men stepped forward and forced her elbows behind her back, pushing her to the cold tiles. She recalled a move she'd seen Nikita and Michael use once on the sparring mats but resisted the urge. Two toughed up agents she could deal with, but there were a dozen more where they came from and she disliked the idea of fighting all of them.

As they led her outside, down the front steps, lights of a different kind flashed.

"Can't you do something about that?" the man holding her left arm muttered to another agent who shrugged. The immediate area had been roped off, but paparazzi from the red carpet were now jostling each other for a snap of one of the terrorists. They ignored the orders of the NYPD to keep back and practically hung over the yellow police tape, almost drooling in their excitement.

Kelly gave them a million dollar smile. A whirring filled the air and they all winced as the gust of helicopter propellers blew towards them, alighting on the blockaded street. It was black with no words or crest, neither commercial nor a government vehicle.

The door opened and several people in black jumpsuits leaped out with a spring in their legs and an extra taunt physique. Two Division exfil teams, thought Kelly. The cameras stopped clicking as people took in the arrival of this new variable. The FBI commander hurried forward, the crowd parting as he approached the alien men.

Kelly wriggled her fingers in the cuffs and wondered how long it would take her to pick them. She kept one eye on proceedings in front of her, the other on the van that housed Culotte. The door to the back was slightly ajar. The FBI commander seemed to have reached some sort of agreement with Division and Kelly was curious as to what their cover story was.

The man to her left spoke again as they drew near, "Sir?"

The commander came over and gave Kelly a steely look that would have reduced any mortal to wobbly knees. "S.W.A.T.," he said finally, "I need you two inside. Leave her to the NYPD."

He stalked away and Kelly gave his retreating back a tiny smile. Perfect.

When her FBI guard had left, she looked askance at the NYPD officer wringing his wrists. He seemed uncertain as to where to put her and she caught his eye.

"That puffed up dude with the red hair wanted me in that van," she nodded her head towards Culotte's holding place. "Look, they even unlocked it for me, before S.W.A.T. called them away."

The officer squirmed, obviously not wishing to trust her. In response, she angled her body and let him see her cuffed hands, firmly stuck behind her back. He made a quick decision, looked over his shoulder and began to push in her the direction of the FBI vehicle.

"So who was that wranger dude?" she said casually of the Commander. The officer stared stonily ahead and didn't reply. They approached the vehicle and he shoved her backwards, she feigned losing her balance and gripped the door of the van with her tied hands.

Using her new platform, Kelly kicked forwards with feet firmly together. They collided with the man's jaw and he hit the pavement, blacked out. She quickly rushed to him and used her feet to roll his unconscious body into the shadow of the van. Then, crouching, she stepped over her own hands like a skipping rope, with some difficulty, cursing that she'd never paid much attention to their flexibility lessons, always preferring to take the strength and agility classes.

Wincing at the ache in her shoulders, she stood up in time to watch the FBI flood the Met in perfect formation. She lifted her wrists to her face and inspected the cuffs. The two wrists were connected by a chain and it seemed to be made of carbon steel. It had a level lock, a double lock that made it almost impossible to pick. She'd have to slip it if she wanted freedom. Tugging against them to feel their elasticity, a new idea came to her.

Opening the door of the van, she jumped in.

"Hey," she breathed. The woman inside attempted to scream but Kelly darted forward and put her hand over the women's mouth, "Shhh...shh..." Muffled cries and pleading words brushed against the inside of her constricting palms. The woman's saliva felt uncomfortable. Kelly wrinkled her nose in disgust and pulled her off her seat and onto the floor. She pushed Culotte onto her stomach and manoeuvred the bulky skirt, until she was straddling her target's back.

Then, looping her arms around the woman, her cuffs coming to rest at the women's lips, she began to lower them.

Tiffane realised too late what was happened and her cry of terror was cut short with a choked gasp as the cuff's chains pulled tight around her neck. Kelly sat upon her upper body, stopping her thrashing and gave one final tug. The rings of the chain snapped as Marie's broken neck fell forward, her skin now tinged blue and swollen like a ghastly puppet.

Kelly stretched her arms, the cuffs spinning on her wrists and carefully peeked outside the van. The commotion seemed focused in a corner opposite to her own and she jumped out, creeping into the shadows and skirting the perimeter of NYPD officers. She ducked under the police tape and pinned herself to a building about a block away from the scene. Calming her breathing, the pump of adrenaline still hot and spicy in her veins, she pressed a shaking finger to her earpiece and brought its buzzing back to life.

"Agent Kelly here," she heard herself say with relish, emphasizing the 'agent', "Target down. I repeat, target Tiffane Culotte down."

She waited nervously for a reply. Then Amanda's silky voice penetrated her mind, "Congratulations Kelly. I'm proud of you."

The coldest blood runs through my veins,

You know my name.

On the gallery steps, Nikita heard the siren of the front doors being breached. She untangled herself from Patrick's arms, pulling him behind a stone pillar and stared down at the foyer. Michael's date rushed into the midst of the FBI and was bundled away. Then Kelly stumbled into the light and was arrested. Nikita felt a tiny pang but knew that she would be bailed out before the night was over.

"Nikita, let me take you," Patrick said in that soft Southern twang. She looked up at him in confusion. "Let me lead you out there, let the FBI arrest you, Percy will send exfil."

"What?"

"Things will get messy if we stay inside the museum."

"What about you?"

He peered down, "I'm just a brave guest, playing hero." He lifted the gun and nudged her back with it, wanting to walk her down the stairs as a hostage, a captive.

Nikita narrowed her eyes imperceptibly, the inconstant light never settling on her face. She rolled his earpiece slowly between the praying palms of her hands. Studying his face, open and offering her an escape from what would undoubtedly be a bloodbath, she lifted a finger to his cheek.

"Why did you hug me?" she said, her voice hushed and surprisingly raspy.

He looked confused for a moment, such a genuine expression that Nikita almost believed it. "You seemed in need of one."

She trailed the finger down along his jaw and to his collar. "Okay," she tore her gaze away from his azure bow tie and repeated, "Take me out."

He nodded, turned her around and marched her down the steps. The FBI turned their torches upon them, she moved a hand over her eyes and continued on her way. She passed Stephen's motionless body, the spear still tall and proud. To her utmost relief, she saw the little movement of his chest. He was alive. She hadn't killed him. He was alive.

"Stop!" a voice cried. "What are you doing?"

"I've captured one of ze terrorists!"

There was a silence, then the fidgeting of weaponry, "How do we know you're not one of them."

"Then arrest me too!" Patrick said carefully, beginning to descend the steps once more. "My name is Patrick. I am the husband of Tiffane Culotte, owner of TLC Dream! I was a guest at this dizasterly party."

Some of the agents seemed to register faint recognition with a mumble of agreement. As the officers stepped forward to incarcerate her, a new bunch of men entered the doors. A red-haired man she guessed was the New York City branch Commanding Officer stormed forward and threw her a loathsome glance. Behind him, two dozen men in black stood at ease. The Commander spoke to one of the officers.

Nikita looked at the new soldiers with a growing unease. Their faces were masked. She wanted to see their eyes. Faintly realising that the earpiece was held tightly in her fist, she pressed it with her fourth finger, missing its tiny beep in the other superfluous noise. Then slowly, she dragged her finger nail across its surface, knowing the sound would register loud and clear to the listener.

What other distress signal could she send? Her own bud long disposed of, the FBI having settled their sights upon her chest, and with Patrick hovering. _Patrick_, she thought, _what to make of him?_

Before she could mull over it further, there seemed a flash of red and white. Three of the agents in front of her crumpled to the ground. Nikita was running before she even realised she'd decided to move her legs. The men in black advanced upon the remaining FBI, the ones they hadn't shot in the back. Nikita rushed around a corner and stared back at the scene. The men were spreading out now, pairs of then taking a different corridor. She bunched herself up behind an ancient stone tablet as footsteps came her way. Staring at their backs, she jumped from her hiding spot as they disappeared and made her way back to the foyer.

Patrick was gone. The Commander lay face down in a pool of his own blood. Nikita stuck her bud into her ear, suddenly unsure of who was on the other side. Who did Patrick work for? He smelled of Division, he certainly looked like Division but the hug, so out of place in the repertoire of a carefully trained asset, his demand that they turn themselves in – to save themselves the trouble of fighting. What Division agent shied away from fighting?

Never in her entire career had she met someone who didn't crave blood. Only herself. Yet in her times of deepest doubt, even she couldn't deny the jolt of pleasure at the thought of that unparalleled adrenaline hit. She couldn't deny the feeling of acceptance when she walked back into the Common after a successful mission and saw the looks of awe on the faces of the recruits.

Nikita hated the lack of cover, the beautifully domed ceilings that seemed to reach into the heavens, the second floor balconies perfectly placed to hide a sniper. Keeping low to the ground, as if that would be of any help, she dipped her hand into the white residue of gunpowder and sniffed it. It was a foreign concoction. Then beside one officer's body, she found the shell she was expecting.

Holding its weight in her hand, it took only an instant for her to recognise the blown version of the bullet left on her kitchen floor. The copper shell and crushed silver tip. Gogol.

She glanced at the bodies and noticed one man dressed only in his underwear. Nikita growled.

"So that's why you wanted to be in the foyer when the shooting started."

Scrambling back into the right wing, she wondered where the faux FBI officer had got to. Outside perhaps? Escaped into the frigid night air? No. To her dismay, the front doors seemed to have sealed themselves again. How could Birkhoff do such a thing? He'd locked them all inside with Gogol!

Crouching in the shadows, Nikita heard the sound of a large horde of people. She moved slowly towards it, her ears guiding her more than her eyes. As she drew close, she could almost smell the fear upon them. How could she have been so stupid as to forget the guests?

"If you'll be quick, ladies and gentleman, the Bureau have decided the emergency location will be the library."

Nikita stared at the officer in the blood stained uniform. She wondered where Patrick had procured a wig and then realised that she herself had crept through the costume exhibition on her way here. He'd also smeared some of the officer's blood across his jaw and cheek. The image made her stomach turn. He was British again. The guests had their heads bowed, hurrying along and not paying him very much attention. She noticed several waiters amongst them, their white shirts almost transparent with perspiration.

She shadowed the pack, wondering what the plan was. It wasn't until, watching from behind a display of giant vases, the group were ushered into the library room that something finally clicked into place. Her cogs, so still and unnervingly silent, abruptly began to turn, slowly, grinding out the rust at first, but then seemed to whirl into overdrive.

The blood was thumping so hard in her chest she barely remembered to breath.

"Never mind them, just S.W.A.T." Patrick said carelessly as the Gogol agents bared the door closed on the last guest, "Sit tight. Authorities will have the insurgents in no time, we've surrounded the building."

As the lock came over the double doors, Nikita jumped from her spot and knocked over the vase in her haste. It shattered upon the hard floor and she barely had time to draw her last pistol before Gogol had their sights back upon her. She heard the screams before they even happened. The crowd had just walked into the first war zone. The original Gogol kill squad must lie stinking and bloodied upon the pristine library carpet. Her gut told her that her recruits were there too.

Watching hopelessly, unable to move a step forward without being blown to pieces, she saw a Gogol agent painstakingly place a device upon the doors and attach its wires to several other similar devices. With the flat of his palm, the agent pressed on the objects, one by one. Their screens buzzed to life, red digits illuminated. 15:00, 14:59, 14:58, 14:57...

"You bastard," was all she managed as she watched the bombs count down. Patrick spread into a smile full of teeth and victory.

"Now now, let's not be hasty," he lilted, a sudden Irish brogue upon his tongue. "For you see, darlin', the decisions you make in the next...hmmm...14 minutes and 13 seconds will be the most important of all."

"You _bastard_!"

He clucked his tongue and stepped towards her, "Thank you for taking out my earpiece, I was wondering how I'd get rid of it myself without you noticing. Percy really wouldn't like the direction his careful little plan is taking."

"Percy knows what you are," she spat. She'd said it as an instinctive rebuff, as a dog barking at an intruder. Only when the words were out of her mouth did she hear the truth in them. Division had attacked her. They'd left her a Gogol bullet. Percy _did_ know. The bloody genius, of course he knew – and he'd wanted her to know too. "Percy knows you're with Gogol," she repeated with more conviction.

"Be that as it may," he narrowed his eyes, a sibilant snigger escaping him, "Percy's injured. I saw to that. And we really are surrounded, darlin'. You saw them take away Kelly. And Christian and Wade are in the library, decaying with the rest of the bodies."

Hands banged against the library doors, a hysterical sound of shrieking and moaning came from behind it. Nikita bit her tongue to keep from throwing up. Tears pooled in her eyes, "Those bodies are Gogol men."

Patrick shrugged, uncaring, "A necessary sacrifice – to thin out your ranks. Though I didn't really expect them to take out Percy or Michael, even after I'd wounded them, though that _would _have saved us some trouble. And your Kelly's a feisty one. Didn't expect to see her alive."

At Patrick saying Michael's name so flippantly, Nikita bared her teeth, she wanted to strike out, wanted to shoot him now and to hell with the consequences. But her training and her heart told her to be calm. The cogs whirled away as she looked to the library, the bombs upon the door, the five Gogol drones in front of them, aiming their guns at her. Then she looked at Patrick, seemingly unarmed, dressed as an FBI agent, the wig placed carefully upon his head. Lastly, she looked down at her own SIG-Sauer, so small and useless in comparison to the submachine guns. Nikita refused to allow her hands to shake.

"There's a good gal," he cooed, stepping towards her, "You look in need of another hug."

Her skin crawled all over. He came within 3 feet of her outstretched firearm. "I could shoot you now and overpower your men. You know I could."

Patrick placed a manicured hand over her gun and it took all of her concentration not to blast his fist off. "You won't."

"Oh really?" she pushed out through her clenched jaw.

He gave her a simpering smile and opened his arms, as if inviting her into a ballroom. At his command, the agents lowered their weapons a fraction and let her step past them, around the corner. She hated having Patrick by her side, hated the feel of his closeness.

But the irk of his presence paled in comparison to another overwhelming need to heave the contents of her stomach. As she rounded the corner, she saw the backs of the rest of the Gogol agents. Seven guns were trained, not on her, but on two piles lying on the floor. They parted as Patrick stepped up to them and then turned around to Nikita with a mocking bow and insidious sweep of his arms.

"If you kill me," he said softly, a quiet authority emanating from them, "They die."

Nikita stared at the ghostly pale Percy, who managed a wry smile and seemed to move his lips a little. She didn't need to hurry forward and ask him to repeat his words, they came straight through her earpiece in a rough whisper. "Birkhoff, activate now."

At first, she thought he was talking to her, but her tattered vestiges of common sense told her Percy would have another Comm to talk to Operations. Before she could think more, she felt a burning in her earlobes. She bit down a scream at they scorched her skin and she fumbled with her gun, trying to remove the metal loops from her ears. Below the loops hung Amanda's gold and topaz chandelier earrings. But now, the topaz seemed to glow, the jewels seemed to crackle with electricity.

What creation of Birkhoff's was this? Her gun was dreadfully out of position, hanging from her finger, as she stared at the delicate things in her hands.

"What does it do?"

"_It will save Michael's life."_

She looked up into Percy's eyes, unable and almost unwilling to hide the longing in them. The Gogol agents separated them, but their closed circuit feed allowed a perfect line of communication. She could hear his laboured breathing and saw that the sash from her dress had soaked through and was now clinging to his wound. How long since he'd been shot? 40 minutes, 50? Did victims of a chest wound even last that long, Nikita thought, as a bubble of panic shot up her throat and threatened to come out as a sob. She looked back at the yellow earrings and then as Michael, so lifeless his lips were already blue.

"How will it save him?" she murmured, now that she had looked carefully at him, she couldn't take her eyes away. The pallid shade of his skin seemed to scream death. She was too late, Nikita was sure of it! She swallowed another sob.

"_By killing the people in the other room."_

This time, Nikita didn't bother swallowing.

Try to hide your hand,

Forget how to feel.

Forget how to feel.

DECEMBER 2005

"So this is you," he mused. Nikita looked up at him, remnants of their impromptu dance making her strangely uncomfortable in his presence.

She removed his arm from around her waist and walked into the atrium of her apartment block – in all its sterile beauty. Against the monochrome background, her red dress was like a stain. Bold, brave, beautiful. He watched her saunter over to the elevators and lagged behind. In a black suit, he was just another colourless part of the set design. She was the actress in the spotlight.

"Coming up?" she asked with a small smile, unintentionally coquettish.

A memory of her leaning against the terrace door, his heat covering her, her lax expression, lips parted – that moment was gone now. Michael faded back into the wallpaper. She wouldn't give herself freely to him again. Nikita was back in control. Fiery, dominant and untouchable. He had a feeling he wouldn't see her vulnerable again. Part of him took pride in knowing he had helped create such a creature, but part of him was sad. That a simple door had thwarted his attempt...attempt...at what? A pinch of guilt seasoned his pot of emotions.

Michael shook his head, "I'll see you tomorrow at the briefing for Op Lily."

She thought for a moment, and Michael thought he could see disappointment in her gaze. He scowled at himself.

Nikita was thinking of how their bodies had moved around each other. At the finesse and skill at which they'd thrown each other around. "Can you imagine if we ever had to fight each other? That would be crazy," she said, more for the sake of keeping in his company a little longer than anything else.

"I'd win," he stated, eyes lighting up a little at her encouragement, "Just give me a taser, a bed and some rope."

Her mouth dropped open and then she pouted, "If we're talking about weapons, then we both know I could kill you with my legs. But I think it's more of a matter of who has the greater will to live."

"I still have to get revenge for my family," he said quietly, as she stepped inside one of the lifts.

"And I'm much too pretty to die."

As she disappeared behind the doors, Michael was left alone. He thought about his Elizabeth, and Haley. His little girl, his lost little girl. Then he thought about La Cumparsita. Forehead creased, body and soul torn, Michael wandered down the street with his hands deep in his pockets – thinking about his family and humming a tune.

When the storm arrives,

Would you be seen with me?

By the merciless eyes of deceit?

Birkhoff was in shock. His screens were focused on the scene outside the library, when really, they should have been at the front door, barring the entrance of the police. But they were fools, and his little encryption would keep the front doors locked until he wanted them open. The museum was made to withstand an attack from the outside, the glass would hold unless they decided to move a bulldozer against it. If that was the case, it would take them at least forty minutes to find the nearest one.

He'd Shadownetted it.

Hardly trusting even his versatile mind to juggle more than one tragedy, he'd told one of the exfil teams to pick up Kelly and renegaded the other, as well as Amanda's ordered kill squad, to the back burner. No way would he send their troops towards the museum. Gogol had their agents everywhere. They surrounded the building like a dragon guarding its eggs. When the fake S.W.A.T. team had wandered straight through the front doors and gunned down the gullible FBI, Birkhoff couldn't even alert anyone to the danger. They'd all thrown away their Comm's.

If Michael survived this, Birkhoff would kill him. What kind of mentor taught their students to throw away their sole line of communication to Operations? Idiots.

All he'd been able to do was warn the incapacitated Percy, who'd ungratefully noted that Nikita had already sent him a message. Birkhoff didn't know what that meant as he'd just been staring at Nikita in the foyer, doing nothing and saying nothing.

Now, he was attempting to hack into the bomb circuit. His fingers worked of their own accord, emotionless as always, they tapped and rapped the usual codes his hacker skills had churned into muscle memory. This left his mind empty to fret, a fine line of sweat appearing on his upper lip. Not from exertion, but fear.

He'd activated the Engine-Starter. It was a nifty little design that he'd created for jump-starting dead batteries from a distance. It seemed embarrassing to even think of the original purpose of the trinket. One of his fighter drones had gone flat a few months ago, and, too lazy to walk to his hangar and fix the thing himself, he'd made a little chip, the size of his pinkie nail and inserted it in the plane's cockpit. Next time it died, the thing sucked battery like a parasite, he would just have to press a button from the comfort of his bed. The chip siphoned energy from neighbouring sources. The houses and streetlamps around the plane would have a minor blackout, their systems short circuiting as the plane's engine overloaded them for a few minutes. Then the electricity would return and his planes would be functional for an hour and a half – enough to fly to his garage and have him swap out the burnt battery pack for a new one and send it on its way.

So when Percy had come to him for some device that would 'revolutionise human resuscitation', he'd simply taken that idea – a seed planted from sheer sloth – and altered it to send electrical shocks to the human heart. It was a compact defibrillator that could be integrated into anything; a mobile phone, a credit card, a wrist watch. A pair of earrings.

"Give me visual Birkhoff," Amanda barked, hands on hips, hovering over him.

"Visual on what?" he muttered back, while simultaneously flicking his computer to split screen, dozens of cameras coming up in a grid.

"The front doors."

He sighed, short temper made even shorter by his escalating heart rate, "Chillax Lady, I got that covered. It'll be Armageddon before they break through that code."

"They did it before, which was how the FBI and then Gogol entered the premises," she hissed, "Now give me visual on the front doors before you make another blunder."

Slamming down a fist, he stretched his overworked fingers and spun around to face her. Anger made him reckless, "Are you being serious, woman? Nikki and Mike are stuck in hell over there, and I might just be their _only_ chance at getting out alive while keeping those guests from becoming human mince meat. And you want me to watch the doors? What's your angle, what are you playing at if not saving the lives of your people?"

"You have grown rather attached to them haven't you?"

He jumped from his chair, sending it spinning across the floor. Operations fell deathly silent as he yelled, "Amanda! This isn't one of your psychoanalytical mind-melds, okay? This is Michael about to die. And we both know that if he's gone, you may as well just kill Nikki too and put here out of her misery."

The woman folded her arms and cocked out a hip. Uncontrollable in his rant, Birkhoff raved, arms waving madly, "And Percy! He's injured too, with more than a dozen Gogol goons ready to kill him! And the guests, oh sweet baby Jesus. Do you know the combined worth of the people in that room? What are you going to tell CNN when all we have left of them are odd limbs and pinkies? Or are you just going to say, 'oh well, at least we kept the front doors secure!'"

"Seymour Birk – "

"You have to let me help her. Even if the room explodes, they're still going to execute our people," Birkhoff pressed his face close to Amanda's, "I'm her only help. If I can just disable the bombs, tell Percy to tell Nikki – then she can focus on getting them all out alive instead of making some sick choice between Mikey and innocents. I have to do this. You have to let me."

"No."

"What?"

Amanda shook her head very firmly, "No. Absolutely not."

Birkhoff's face fell, crumpling at his stared at one of the overhead screens where the countdown showed 09:53, 09:52, 09:51...

"This is a test isn't it?" he wasn't even ashamed when two hot tears rolled down his face. "You're a cold hearted bitch, Amanda." She looked at him with a mixture of pity and amusement. "All that panic when Percy was first shot, that was just an act for us right? Have you two planned this out from the start?"

"Do my eyes deceive me or are you becoming emotionally involved?" she said softly, mockingly. She stepped forward and put her hands on either side of his shoulders, ducking slightly to meet his eyes.

Birkhoff struggled with himself. He was still so afraid that Amanda would break him, or that Division would throw him to the Feds if he didn't cooperate. But really, what was the point when cooperation led him to this? Mustering all his control, he wriggled out of her grip and walked out of Operations, out of the place he'd spent years working to be at – Shadownet, all of it. Gone. Was he quitting? He didn't know. All he knew was that what was happening at the Met was wrong.

Was this the price of friendship? Rubbing away his weakness with a forearm, Birkhoff begged and begged, despite never being much of a praying man, that something heavenly would help his Nikki and his Mikey.

It wasn't until he was already halfway across Division, seeking solace in B305, that Birkhoff realised there was a small, compact contraption in his jacket pockets. Withdrawing the object with a gulp and a nauseating sense of vertigo, he realised that Amanda had sneaked the trigger for the earrings into his safekeeping when she gave him that uncomfortable little shoulder grab, pseudo-hug.

"Oh no, no, no," he whispered, collapsing into the couch and looking at the time. Five minutes. It was in his hands now, whether or not to push the button to trigger Michael's heartbeat and short circuit, detonating, the bombs. Or whether to leave it and risk Michael's almost certain death.

With a horrible falling sensation, he realised that having walked out of Operations, he now had no contact with events in the Met. No contact with Nikita. He wouldn't know what she planned, he wouldn't know if she wanted him to press the button. Cupping his left cheek, Birkhoff resigned himself to heaving sobs, as his right fingers wrapped around his nifty little Engine-Starter, literally holding human life in his hands.

I've seen diamonds cut through harder men,

Than you yourself.

I've seen angels fall from blinding heights,

But you yourself are nothing so divine.

Just next in line.

Nikita clutched the earrings to her chest, not able to take her eyes off Michael, she whispered to Percy, "How do I trigger it?"

"_Birkhoff."_

"Birkhoff?"

"_He has the trigger finger...if you're sure this if what you want."_

Her heart screamed that she wanted nothing more in the world than to bring but Michael. Her mentor, her friend. Not an hour ago they had danced to Blue Danube and she'd remembered a night, one spent many months ago. Before Op Lily, before he'd told her about his family. Selfishly she tried to justify her need to keep him alive, he still had a man to kill. A child to avenge. He needed to live. _She _needed him to live.

But then the screaming, the muffled cries from the library reminded her of a promise she'd made to herself. A promise to be value life, when all around seemed not to. That too, was something she needed. It was a seed inside, one that never flourished, was never allowed to bloom, not with her life, her occupation. But the seed was there. And as long as it was fertile and nurtured in soft soil, Nikita could look at herself in the mirror and not want to punch her reflection. As long as that remained, she would be whole.

But if Michael died...the thought drove all other sensible thoughts away. If Michael died she'd never be able to pick up the pieces. She'd never be able to glue herself together, never be able to wake up again, or walk down Division's halls. Her breath came out heavy, painful with the tightness in her chest, stabbing her left ribs. What was the point of being whole in spirit but broken in life? Broken physically, as broken as if someone had come and torn at her flesh with clawed gloves. Without her heart, what good would be the little seed?

Yet what use was a heart without goodness? Could she ever love herself if she let those people die? No. Nikita admitted, her whole being quivering with the effort to contain her sobs and screams. No. She would never be able to love herself, so then how could she ever love another?

Staring across what may well have been an impossible divide, she looked at Michael's blue lips and grey face. The perspiration on his forehead glistened, the fragility of his limbs apparent even through his expensive suit.

He looked so small. So vulnerable.

Did she love him?

Nikita thought of how preposterous this was, plunging the depths of an aching heart like a teenager. This was hardly the time. And time was of the essence. Slowly ticking, the red digits counting down second by second...But she knew, standing there while Patrick observed her through thin lips, as the Gogol agents leveled their weapons and Percy panted against the wall, just keeping from blacking out; she knew that she could not venture an inch from her stop until she answered her own question.

Did she love Michael? Love was supposed to be wild, joyful, glorious. It was said to be unmatched it its splendor, more beautiful than the rarest jewels, more valuable that any amount of gold. It was supposed to sparkle and shine and rest inside you like a glowing bud of warmth. Nikita thought about herself. Did she feel that?

No.

Michael pained her. He broke her with his words, his looks. He didn't trust himself, and so could never truly trust her. He was so insecure, so certain that nothing good resided in him, so devoured by his own guilt and his own past that any effort of hers to brighten that darkness was rebuffed. They shared no common interests, no common goal. They had little to say outside of work. Anything else was wrought with tension and uncertainty and even a little violence. The Stanford Studio, how many bruises had she walked away with? And Russia, had the nightmares after his confession ever really stopped? Even when she woke with no recollection of those phantoms, she still noticed the cold sweat upon her skin, the parched dryness of her mouth.

Was that love? Was that even a healthy friendship?

Arm yourself because no one else here will save you.

The odds will betray you,

And I will replace you.

Birkhoff had curled himself into a ball and was clutching at the trigger, staring and counting down the seconds in his head. Michael, or the guests. The guests, or Michael. Strangers or a friend. One person, or a hundred. A government asset, or elitist snobs. Parents of children or a single lonely man.

"What would you do?" he whispered over and over, "If you were me, what would you do?"

Save himself, or save others?

Birkhoff knew the answer. Selfless, nation-serving Michael would save the innocents. His fingers twitched above the button. But these were rich, big-shots. The kind that didn't give a second thought to the sacrifice they made, that _he_ made. He's dedicated his life to stealing their money, the undeserving bastards, and here they were, about to take his friend too.

You can't deny the prize, it may never fulfil you.

It longs to kill you,

Are you willing to die?

"Five minutes, darlin'," Patrick reminded her.

Nikita dropped the earrings to the floor. A river of tears obscuring her vision as their light, tingling electric shocks disappeared from her fingertips. Choking back her cries, she raised her SIG-Sauer in lightning movement and aimed it at the emergency lights. Two shots and she plunged the room into darkness. There was a shuffling of chaotic movement but Nikita registered none of it.

As she lowered her firearm in a swooping arc, she aimed right where Patrick had been standing to fired two shots. She felt him fall to the ground and caught his dead weight in her arms, using his body as a sack, she moved towards the Gogol agents, who had just managed to fumble on their torches. Hands under Patrick's armpits, she dived towards Percy and pulled the dead man over both of them like a blanket.

"You took your sweet time deciding," Percy cried above the gunshots raining upon them.

She almost managed a smile and aimed her gun over Patrick's lolling head. One Gogol agent fell with a yelp. Then another. She clicked the trigger a few times and found it empty, swearing, she felt along her makeshift shield's waistband and uncovered the Vector he'd stolen off her. She cocked the submachine and fired. Jumping from her hiding spot, she pummeled the troops, her anger driving her to careless abandon but her aim remaining strong and true. Their blinding torches fell, one by one, and she blinked away the stars behind her eyes as the room was submerged in darkness once more.

Patrick was gone. And there had been 7 agents in this room. 5 outside guarding the library. That made twelve. She'd just dropped 4. That left a mere 8 men to fight off.

A blinding pain.

Nikita spun around and someone grunted as the barrel of her gun connected with a head. She the metallic slice of a knife hit the marble floor and fell to her knees trying to find it. In her haste, she cut her fingers against the blade, feeling the warmth of her own blood slide down her palms. The hurt was secondary to everything else.

The man she'd butted came back to her. She sensed him before he reached her and jabbed out. His gargled cry told her she'd hit his jugular and twisted with a vicious push. 7 to go. The dying screams of her victim alerted others to her position. They weren't shooting anymore, knowing that the flash of bullets was disorientating and dangerous. Instead, they were trying stealth.

Nikita was the master of stealth. She padded, her feet still mercifully bare of shoes, away from the library doors and waited. Very soon, a pair of heavy breaths and footfalls, dressed as they were in bulky army boots, approach. She fired one round it bullets into both chests and knew the ignition of her Vector gave glimpses of her face.

Sure enough, a bullet whipped past her head, so close it grazed her cheek. She gasped at the sting and fired in the direction of her assailant, crisscrossing out of the room as she did so, hearing more bullets race past her and explode into the glass cabinets, raining shards upon her. She squeezed her eyes closed and rounded the corner to the library doors. She saw shapes in the gloom, and the flashing red lights upon the timers.

03:15, 03:14, 03:13...

In the corridor, a faint glow from more emergency lights made her visible. She ducked behind another large vase and took two shots above its rim. A library guard crumpled against the wall. Through the doorway from whence she'd just come, the remaining 5 men stalked towards her. She was crouched in the corner, the 4 remaining guards joined the contingent and closed the semi-circle of guns.

Nikita gulped. She had to act fast.

Wrapping her left arm over her head, she shot at the display cabinets and ran into the fray. At the onslaught of broken glass, the agents hesitated. Nikita grabbed one in a headlock and broke his neck. She shot another through the brow and wielded the knife like a throwing star in her left hand. It landed in one man's forehead and easily sliced through his brain. She kicked and tumbled, rolling away from their bullets until she managed to duck behind another giant vase. Just another 6 men.

02:15, 02:14, 02:13...

She fired two bullets at the chandelier hanging above them and it crashed down upon one man, pinning him. The others scattered and Nikita shot one in the back and rushed forward, catching his falling form and raising him above her head like a shield. The other four backed into a corner as she advanced, bullets flying. As she neared, Nikita threw the body of their comrade at them and took the distraction to pick off another two.

Leaping to the side to avoid their retaliation, she crashed into a broken cabinet grabbed the ornamental cups and bowls, throwing them like discuses at her opponent's heads. As they ducked, she sprayed a round into one man's chest.

An explosion of flesh brought her tumbling to the ground. Nikita felt her left shoulder go numb and she blinked through the film of red, shooting blinding at the direction of the final Gogol soldier. She quickly lost feeling in her left elbow as the limb went into shock. Not bothering to bite back her scream of frustration, she launched herself at the man and bludgeoned him to death with the base of her gun. She caved his skull with one final strike, her breathing growing laboured as the pain tore at her nerves.

01:15, 01:14, 01:13...

With each intake of air becoming increasingly painful, white lights dancing in front of her eyes, Nikita stumbled towards the bomb contraption. Her hands shook and she was forced to drop her Vector to investigate the wires more closely.

00:55, 00:54, 00:53...

She tried to control her heartbeat, her racing head just like in exigent training. Her record with a car bomb was 21 seconds. She could do this. Fingers fumbling upon the metal, she pulled open the compartment and stared inside. Where was the primer? Where was the reactor wire? Eyes adjusting to the mesh of leads, she ran her fingers from the ignition timer socket to a white wire, entwined with a black wire that seemed to lead nowhere.

00:35, 00:34, 00:33...

There were five primary fuse boxes, arranged in a large X shape upon the double doors and connected by retractable wires. Nikita was running out of time. She didn't even have a pair of wire cutters. Heart racing, her fingers felt under the centre box and searching for a thin sliding panel. It clicked open at her gentle pressure and she dug her nails into the slit, as thin as a piece of cardboard, holding her breath as the suctioning system released its hold upon the door. Nothing detonated. Eyes blinking in relief, she did the same for the other four boxes, until she had the bombs cradled in her arms.

00:25, 00:24, 00:23...

She was sprinting, her feet sliding on the smooth floors as she rounded the corners without bothering to slow down. The foyer neared. If there was one place in this museum that could handle an explosion without too much damage, it was the foyer, soaring arches and huge space.

00:10, 00:09, 00:08...

Nikita ran to the pile of FBI bodies and placed the bombs amongst their soft flesh. Five seconds to run and hide behind a pillar and brace herself for the blast.

But she was still several strides out from reaching the safety of the pillars when they exploded.

In a rush of wind and magnetism, Nikita was thrown her off her feet, the force of the blast slamming her into the floor and sending shrapnel into her back. At the impact, her shoulder screaming in pain and the shock drawing the last trickle of consciousness away from her, Nikita blacked out.

In fact, the entire three block radius suffered a leeching of their electricity for almost half a minute before appliances and street lamps flickered back on. The emergency back up generators had lost their fuses and simply didn't start up. The entire Metropolitan Museum sat in darkness. The only light was in the half shattered screen of the centre fuse box. It was frozen on 00:03 as debris slowly rained down upon it, the grand staircase and beautiful balconies shattered and crumbling into dust.

You never saw me change the game,

That we've all been playing.

Birkhoff squeezed his eyes shut, tears escaping from under them. At the very last minute his thumb came down upon the button.

The trigger slipped from his fingers as he fell forward. The great Shadow Walker succumbed to weeping.

Life is gone with just a spin of the wheel.

A spin of the wheel.

Michael awoke with a huge gasp. His chest felt on fire, like he'd discombobulated and was remade in a fraction of a second. Eyes peering to see in the darkness, he first thought he'd gone blind. A panic spread through him before he finally began to distinguish dull figures in the room. The struggle to make sense of his surroundings quickly overwhelmed a head starved of oxygen and a heart desperately making up for lost time by attempting to rip from his very ribs.

He made some animalistic cry before losing consciousness and falling into a comatose sleep. But this time, his heart was beating and he was very much alive.

Percy, unseen beside him, spread into a wide smile and finally allowed himself to walk gently to that tempting blackness that had been teasing at the edges of his vision for the past hour. Heaving Patrick's dead body off him with a last ditch effort, he too, rolled back his head and closed his eyes.

* * *

><p><strong>Definitely not my best and one of the hardest to write. My updates will get longer because school starts in three days (Omg ew...) And I know I've told some of you that I'd give you a heads up if I ever start using twitter. I guess I kinda have very recently. So if you're interested, follow Bellaz7<strong>

**EDIT (18th Sept 2012): The previous storyline of Amanda and Oversight has been scrapped. Don't worry, it's coming back :) Lyrics from "You Know My Name" by Chris Cornell  
><strong>


	12. The Awesome Foursome

Place ain't the same without you, babe...

Then let's burn it down. –Aaron Stanford and Maggie Q

(as Birkhoff and Nikita)

"Hey Wonder Woman, what's a hottie like you doing here alone?" Birkhoff said dropping himself, track pants, rolled up cuffs on checkered shirt and all, into the cushioned seat opposite her.

"Hey Nerd, what's a geek like you doing away from a computer screen..."

"Your boyfriend paged me. Speaking of, where is Michael?"

Nikita rolled her eyes and continued to sip on her cocktail, staring straight ahead and ignoring the rhythmic thump of pain that throbbed in her chest. Underneath her shirt, bandages still wrapped around her middle and she needed to take a ridiculous amount of pain killers to be able to function properly. Still, that was preferable to lying in Medical with nothing but old magazines to keep her company.

"My ears are burning," said Michael right on cue, "Sorry I'm late. Percy wanted to go through preparations for The Centennial Foundation Fundraiser tomorrow night."

"Preparations? For what, his suit?"

Michael levelled a hard stare at Birkhoff then turned to look at the blank-faced Nikita, "He wants you for an escort."

She took her lips away from the straw and dead panned him, "I know."

He stared into her eyes and she found herself suddenly unable to look away. Her chest began to thump again and she wasn't quite sure if it was from the wound. Grabbing her shoulders with gentle, but powerful force, he looked at her and said with soft intensity, "Are you sure you're okay to go?"

Birkhoff looked between his two co-workers and let out a low whistle. The air was so palpable he could have grabbed at it and squeezed.

"She'll be fine," came a gentle voice. Amanda pulled up next to Birkhoff and crossed her elegant legs under the table. Michael lowered his hands and Nikita went backed to sucking at her drink. Birkhoff glanced at the woman next to him and raised an eyebrow.

"Great. We're like a little Division family!"

"Keep your voice down," Michael growled.

"You're right Birkhoff," Amanda interrupted in her smooth tones, "And family look after each other."

"Which is why you're here," he stated.

She nodded, hawk eyes scanning over the rest of the people in the restaurant. "I would have loved to book the Stanford Studio but it was already reserved. I thought I'd choose somewhere familiar, though." A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of her lips and Michael could only scowl. Nikita's eyes flickered for a moment. That left Birkhoff observing his companions in confusion.

"We're like a seriously dysfunctional family where everyone's sleeping with each other and cheating on each other with everyone else," he muttered under his breath. "That'd explain the tension."

"Let's get down to business," Michael suggested with an edge. "Why did call us?"

"It's about Oleander."

Nikita jumped in, unwilling to talk about that assignment, "You already debriefed me, remember?"

Amanda gave her an indulgent smile, "Yes I remember. But debriefings are recorded and filed away."

She raised an eyebrow, "So?"

"So...there are things I'd like to explain to you that I'd rather Percy didn't hear about," she looked at each person in turn, assessing their responses like the trained consultant she was. Michael had a wary, detached look in his eyes that told her he already knew what she was going to say. Birkhoff and Nikita on the other hand, seemed honestly curious. Though her student looked rather impressed as well.

"You're disobeying Percy?"

"She told me to 'disobey' him and led me right into a trap," Birkhoff objected with a sudden anger that surprised everyone, "I'm not falling for this crap again. If Michael hadn't run back to save them, those kids would be Kentucky fried chicken by now. Don't listen to her Nikki!"

Amanda smiled glossily back, "That was necessary, Birkhoff. One doesn't walk around parading the fact that they plan to double cross Percy. It would be suicide. But I'm just here to explain what actually happened that night."

Birkhoff crossed his arms and refused to give her eye contact. Inside, his fragile heart was still fuming at what he had nearly done.

"You deserve that much," she cooed, "All of you."

Michael and Nikita looked at each other. They'd both avoided asking too many questions about what went down two weeks ago. Even Nikita had refrained from pushing her luck. It was just better to be grateful she hadn't been cancelled. If Percy had been in a darker mood, he'd have called the Op a failure. Part of her still wondered why he hadn't.

"If you're prepared to listen, then I'm prepared to explain."

You were dropping bread crumbs and I fell for it,

because I decided to _'trust'_ you. –Shane West (as Michael)

"Wait, so Nikki thought that no one was dying. Michael thought that Nikki was dying and Jameson thought that Culotte was dying," Birkhoff said darkly. Amanda nodded. "Dude...that's messed up. So were Jameson and Culotte supposed to die?"

Amanda nodded again.

"Who ordered it?" Nikita asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.

Michael jumped in, saying what he'd been thinking ever since he'd regained consciousness, "The Red Circle Triad. Fashion and trafficking – that's what they specialise in."

"Very good," said Amanda, her voice dripping with condescension.

"Percy's dealing with the Triads?" Nikita cried aghast. Michael placed a hand on her shoulder and held her down. She seemed ready to pounce on Amanda, like it had been her fault. Sitting back down in slow reluctance every inch of her being simmered with anger, like oil bubbling in a pit, hot sparks flaring in her eyes and across her neck. She wanted to hit something. "So I helped the progression of slave labour...well, that's nice."

"Sarcasm, the lowest form of wit," Birkhoff quipped. Nikita turned her glare on him and he cowered just a little. Michael suppressed a smile but quickly became serious once more.

"So what? He planned for me to find the dress and the fake document that outlined Nikita getting blown up," he too, turned an eye on Birkhoff, "And you went along with it?"

The techie held up two palms in surrender, pressing his back as far into the chair as it would go. "I didn't _know_ what Percy was playing at! It sounded just like another one of his games. You know him."

After several seconds of careful scrutiny, Michael decided he was telling the truth, "Fine. Then what? I was supposed to get the dress off Nikita. Percy didn't honestly think I'd just leave a bomb in a room full of our people and run for it, did he?"

Amanda exhaled slowly, "I guess that's where I come in. He asked me, of course, what you would do. And I told him that you would ideally like to lead Nikita away to the lavatories and get the dress off her there. But then _she_ would never allow that. It's rather compromising."

Birkhoff chortled. Michael kicked him in the shin. The smile dropped from his face. It was Nikita's turn to giggle into her drink.

Tightening her lips into a line, Amanda suppressed an eye roll at what she considered her three children. She soldiered on, "And Percy needed the dress to detonate in the antechamber while our targets and recruits where inside. We could hardly expect you to undress her with people watching. So I suggested we use _you_ to our advantage."

Nikita narrowed her eyes, "You're talking like you and Percy are a team. But I thought you were here to disobey him...?"

Michael had a different question, "Use me how?"

"I gave Jameson three instructions for that night. Number one, act suspicious around Michael so that you would figure out he was in on the plan and either question him or work it out using your instincts," she explained with no small measure of pride, "And number two, to leave the room when Nikita took his phone."

"But he was supposed to die. So why tell him to leave?"

"He didn't know he was supposed to die."

"And if he did run, the Op would have failed."

"Oh, the Triads fail...what a disaster," Nikita muttered.

"Michael, once you figured out that Jameson was involved and Nikita was in that room. Do you really think you would have let him leave?" Amanda said knowingly. Michael snapped his mouth closed. "I thought so. And once you questioned Jameson, you would hear of the plan to kill Culotte. And our recruits along with her."

"And then, was I supposed to have my ah-ha moment, rip the dress off Nikita and run? The only reason I could even get the thing off her was because she was unconscious," Michael said, leaning on his elbows across the table. "If Culotte hadn't shot her then...oh no, you've got to kidding me. _That_ was planned too?"

Realisation dawned on Michael's face. Then he went furious. Dark clouds seemed to drift across his countenance and it was Nikita's turn to take his arm and push him back into his seat.

"You could have died!" he turned to her, looking into her face and then Amanda's in shock. "You risked her life just to complete a mission!"

"Why are you so surprised," Amanda said calmly, "At one moment you thought we _were_ going to kill her. It's true that I warned Tiffane and asked her to point the gun at Nikita."

Birkhoff sat forward and stared, his usually fast mind ticking at an achingly slow pace. Something wasn't matching up. The cogs in his head seriously needed oiling. He'd head back to Division and immerse himself in Call of Duty as soon as he could. But first...

"That's not what you told the people on the phone..."

Amanda looked up. It was her turn to be surprised. "You heard?"

"Who were you talking to?"

She looked down with upturned lips and chose to ignore his question. "Yes. Percy didn't know I'd warned Culotte. But then, he didn't know that I helped him. There was no way Michael would be able to convince Nikita to strip down to the bare essentials _and_ to leave the recruits without Jameson running for it. He still thought he was safe, remember? So I went to Plan B."

"You _wanted_ your own students to die?" Nikita shrieked. "How could you?"

"To save your life!" Amanda retaliated, "If you had been conscious, there would have been zero chance that the dress would have detonated in the first place. A complete failure of a mission that would have ended in your, and Michael's, immediate cancellation. Percy's not a happy man when he's $35 million short."

Nikita was subdued, "So that's how much the Triads paid him? Just to eliminate some competition. But was it on the fashion market or on the smuggling side of things..."

"Both," said Amanda as if she was stating the weather.

Nikita glared at her. But Birkhoff's cogs were still rolling.

"Wait...you said you gave Jameson three instructions. You only mentioned two."

"I texted him the properties of halon gas," she replied with a look of pure satisfaction, "Just in case things went wrong."

Michael crossed his arms in disbelief, "You knew I'd go back and save them."

Birkhoff jumped in again, "No wait. That night, when I told you Michael was trapped inside. You were _freaking_ out."

Amanda shrugged delicately, "Well, I had my doubts that Patrick would remember what I'd told him. I was, to be perfectly honest, a little anxious."

Michael shook his head, "What if he'd remembered sooner, before the fire had gotten so out of control and we'd both still been standing. Then wouldn't he walk free?"

"You would have eliminated him."

Nikita snapped her head around and looked at Michael's shell-shocked face. There was a heavy silence that he eventually broke with a breathy laugh. "The man would have just saved my life. There's no way I could have killed him."

"We all know you could and would," Amanda said with a deadly smile, "You gave him a choice and he chose to die. He was willing to go. You're a loyal agent Michael, you would have completed the mission either way."

The corners of his mouth pulled down. He couldn't meet Nikita's eyes and yet he could feel them boring into the side of his head. He knew that _she_ knew there was an element of truth to what Amanda was saying. Yet he still wanted to prove that she was wrong about him.

"I was willing to sacrifice the mission to save those recruits," he argued.

But Amanda had her answer ready, "You did that for Nikita. There was never any doubt in my mind that you would go back for them. I was telling you the truth when I told you I had put three provisional recruits together for easy evaluation. They were never meant to die that night, it was more of a test to see how they would react under pressure. But Jameson was a different story. He was a human trafficker, part of a plot to kill his employer, his wife's sister. Whatever moral reason had led you to save those recruits would not be there anymore. Nikita wouldn't have minded."

Michael was too busy holding Amanda's stare to see the look that flashed across the female agent's face. But Birkhoff did. And what he saw took his breath away. Amanda might have been right about Michael and what he would have done but she had been wrong about _her_. Lightning seemed to dart up her beautiful features and they collected in her eyes. It was almost as if her pupils had dilated so that they seemed to burst with black fire. In that moment, Birkhoff saw the most gorgeous, treacherous being he had ever met. She wasn't 'Nikki', the feisty recruit he usually saw.

She was Nikita.

And he was scared shitless.

In another second, the image was gone. She lowered her eyes back down to the table, took the straw between her teeth and drank the last bit left in the glass. Birkhoff would have thought he'd imagined it if it weren't for the way her hand was still balled into a fist. As he was staring at it, another came on top and smoothed out her fingers.

As Michael's hand lingered over Nikita's, Birkhoff secretly thought that whatever it was that they had – no matter how much they denied it was there – one of these days, it was going to get them both killed. He just wondered if he wanted to be dragged down too. Was this the price of friendship?

"Kind of a convoluted gamble, wasn't it?" Nikita wondered out loud.

"Well Big Guy won, $35 mill," said Birkhoff, "It was worth it."

"$45 actually," Amanda corrected. "And our next big Operation is worth about the same."

"Another hired hit?" Michael growled disconcertedly.

"Not exactly. It's an order from Oversight," she said in an offhanded way, "They want someone more US friendly allying with us in the Ukrainian energy business. So we're to put a company called Pale Fire in Zetrov's seat. Eliminate the Udinov's and replace them with the Semak's."

Nikita tensed, already anticipating the kill. The sudden spike in her adrenaline both thrilled and sickened her. "When's it going down?"

"Not for a year at least. We need intel first. The Udinov mansion is a fortress with no cameras. We'll need to infiltrate from the inside out. So until then...let's concentrate on the dress you'll be wearing to the Intelligence Fundraiser tomorrow," she said with a smile, rising from her seat.

You know how he feels about Percy's mission for hired jobs.

-Lyndsy Fonseca (as Alex, about Michael)

"So that's it? That's all you came to tell us?" said Michael wirily.

She nodded with a half-smile, "I thought you would want to know the truth. Oh and for the record, this conversation never happened. We all enjoyed Tuesday night television and Chinese food in our relative apartments."

"And if Percy checks the trackers?"

"He's busy haggling funds in the lead up to tomorrow night," she said confidently, ready to leave.

But Birkhoff still had a bone to pick, "Amanda, who were on the phone with?"

She brushed a strand of hair out of her face and didn't acknowledge his question. With a small wave, she was gone in a puff of perfume. Nikita pushed the now empty glass away from her and sat back in contemplation.

"So I guess she saved everyone's lives. Michael's, the recruit's and mine by having someone shoot me if that makes any sense. What more of the phone call did you hear?"

Birkhoff shrugged, "At the end, she told the person that she's still loyal to Percy. Guess it's true because whoever was on that line didn't want Culotte dead. And our Mandy planned it so that she would be. Twisted."

"Look," Michael grunted, pinching the bridge of his nose with a pained expression, "Amanda's right. Let's just forget tonight ever happened. It's not like we learnt anything new."

"Except that Amanda's a double, double agent," added the tech guru.

"And that Percy's working with the Triads," said Nikita.

"Oh, and that everyone knows about you two. It's so obvious they're even using your weird relationship to complete Ops, now."

"We've also learnt that between Percy and Amanda – you'd listen to Amanda, even if they're both wanting you to do the same thing," Michael countered. "You can break an encryption but you can't tell when you're being played."

He folded his arms indignantly, "Yo brother, we _all_ got played."

Nikita nodded, "At the end of the day, I think the person who got played the most was Percy."

The boys looked at each other, "Er...explain?"

"He moves us around like pawns, trying to do the whole life-death, Division, save people, grace under fire thing. It seems like he tried to shake us up with this whole ordeal just to show us whose boss. But it's backfired," she said to two gormless faces, "Look. When I was a recruit, I'd never have imagined doing a secret debriefing with Percy's right hand man, Percy's right hand woman and Percy's nerd."

"Gee, thanks."

"You're welcome," she flashed Birkhoff cheap smile, "Now that he's meddled with our heads a bit, it's forced us to rethink. And instead of coming to the conclusion that relationships are 'dangerous and can compromise missions', it's brought us closer. I think that's what Amanda meant when she said 'family look after each other'. We're a family now. Because Percy was stupid enough put us in a position where we had to choose between what we'd been taught and what we believed."

"Mikey's told me about some of your famous sermons but I have to say, it's a whole other experience hearing them first hand," Birkhoff said with a grin, he thumbed Michael, "this guy always makes them sound so dull. It's actually kind of riveting."

Nikita made a face, "I'm flattered."

"But Nikita, relationships _are_ dangerous," Michael insisted.

"Oh yeah? For who? For us or for Percy?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Think about it, Michael. We just spent an hour and a half going over how we figured out Percy's game, saved our skins and completed his mission for him. If the whole of Division bound together and helped each other out like we did, then we'd be unstoppable. Just look at us. Amanda working on logistics, Birkhoff and his gear, me and you on the ground – we could fight the world!"

Her eyes were almost twinkling with delight. She seemed so girlishly excited, so full of hope and promise. Michael longed to give her the answer she wanted to hear. But he knew the consequences of what she was suggesting.

"Nikita..."

"Don't give me that," she brushed aside impatiently, "You're wrong when you say we didn't learn anything new tonight. I _did_. I found out that Birkhoff's not entirely loyal to Percy, that you're not entirely loyal to Percy and Amanda's not entirely loyal to Percy. You know what that reminds me of?"

He saw the dangerous glint in her eye, "What?"

"It reminds me that a King is useless without the other pieces protecting it. And it only works if everyone is 100% willing to fight and die for him. Zoned in on one goal – protect the King. So I think that they drill us full of this 'relationships are dangerous' crap just so it doesn't distract us from our real purpose...protecting Percy's ass."

"Be that as it may," Michael sighed, "It still doesn't mean they wouldn't cancel you on the spot. And remember, we're all in Division because we owe Percy something. Saving a person's life leaves a greater mark than any other in the world."

Birkhoff tipped his head to that. Nikita frowned, "I can think of one other thing that leaves a deeper one." Michael raised his eyebrows. She gave him sarcastic smile, "_Taking_ a person's life. If Percy's saving people's lives and then teaching them to take other's...well, I think it kind balances out our debts to him, yes?"

"I've heard this all before."

"I haven't," cried Birkhoff.

"I'll get you both on my side, one day," she winked," Now since I've only had a one drink and you guys nothing at all...some of that Chinese takeout sounds pretty good."

They left The Lamb's Club together and Birkhoff watched Michael and Nikita banter like an old married couple. Except old married couples didn't usually jab each other in the ribs extra hard. Strolling into the Asian place around the corner, he daydreamed about a kickass team that would take on the authoritarians of the world and beat injustice everywhere. He could almost picture their capes and matching tights.

The Awesome Foursome.

With a snort, he wiped the image away and looked down at the new alert on his Smartphone. It was Percy, paging the coordinates of a building they'd be infiltrating next week. As he taped in the secure key to access Shadownet from the street, black and white cross sections of the Division system flashed before his eyes. Layers upon layers of electronic security, agent tracker codes that changed every week, pin numbers that changed every month, hundreds of rooms and cells, an elite squad of armed guards, whole armouries of weapons and explosives, billions of dollars in funding, zero red tape with a free licence to kill, an invisible geographic location and at the head of it all – a man named Percy.

Birkhoff shook his head free of all of Nikita's fantasies. He knew she didn't approve of much of what Division did, but there was no way she could take on Percy. Even with the help of Michael and Amanda, they would be going against a 3000ft high wall of reinforced titanium, dipped in solid gold.

It was impossible to imagine and insanity to attempt.

And anyhow, Nikki was a Division agent.

With a primal growl of his stomach, Birkhoff carelessly shoved aside all logical thought and decided that he really felt like having chicken.

You're not trying to come at us, are you?

Oh man, Nikki...Nikki, you're insane. –Aaron Stanford (as Birkhoff)

* * *

><p><strong>As you can see, subtle foreshadowing is my forte...*note: sarcasm*<strong>

**Hope we see more of the old dynamic between my lovingly nicknamed "Awesome Foursome" in Season 2. And according to the Pilot episode, Nikki accompanied Percy to the Centennial Ball "five years ago". I my mind, the "Pilot" was 2009. "Free" was Jan 2010 and "Coup the Grace" was Feb 2011 XD**


	13. Dynamics: Almost Here

I would change the world,  
>If I had a chance.<br>Oh won't you let me.

"Have you realised that we get sent on overseas missions a lot together?" Nikita commented with a wry smile.

The Zoraki she was prepping clicked into place, her fingers traced the contours of its barrel with subconscious ease and comfort. She had grown accustomed to handling firearms and their presence offered a sense of safety, familiarity. Gone were the days when she would shudder at the sight of a pistol, hesitating the precious seconds away instead of pulling the trigger. Without the weight of a gun tucked into the back pocket of her jeans, she felt achingly empty. Like an eagle without its razor sharp beak or a car without a steering wheel.

Her constant wielding of weapons was beginning to be one of the many things that defined her. In fact, she was making such a name for herself that amongst the young recruits, she had become a bit of an idol. Every time she stepped out of that elevator in the Common, they would smile shyly or yell out congratulations for her latest mission (how they knew the details was beyond her). It was a little unnerving but also intensely gratifying.

Nikita had never felt this kind of acceptance before.

"So where's Amanda sending us this time?"

Michael retrieved his own semi-automatic of choice and snapped back the safety lock, "Italy. And it's orders directly from Percy. Amanda...hasn't been briefed yet."

She looked up from pocketing The Baby AMT Backup in mild surprise, "Something big?"

"Counter-intelligence, deep cover, non-lethal force where possible," he said in monotone. "There's a mafia ring that's come up on our alerts. Percy's sure they have men on the inside, in high status and high paying job so it's our mission to figure out who those people are."

"And not take them out?"

"I'm sorry," he said with a mocking lilt, "I thought you were Nikita the Righteous. Now you _want_ to kill people?"

She made a face at his teasing, "If the alternative is Percy taking the names and making some back alley deal with them in return for playing ground and cash...well then I'm not sure eliminating them altogether would be the smarter way to go."

"Are those the questions that keep you up at night?"

"Always."

He held her challenging glare for a second longer then melted in a reluctant, genuine smile. She beamed triumphantly in reply. She may be more comfortable disposing of living beings when it was her duty to, but that didn't mean she would lose all of her humanity. The day she could look at a target and not feel any kind of emotion would be a sad day indeed.

He smoothed away his grin and straightened up with stiff solidarity. "Ready?"

Falling into her own equivalent of androgynous obedience she nodded once, curtly, "Ready."

But when I need you,  
>You're almost here.<br>And I know that's...  
>Not enough.<p>

"That's it with you, isn't it?" Nikita said as soon as Michael shut the door to her apartment. The words that had threatened to spill over during the whole, tense plane ride let loose. "Every time I think there's still an ounce of goodness in your – "

"Nikita, I didn't have a choice," Michael replied through gritted teeth.

She gave a sarcastic laugh, "That's what you always say."

"I thought you were beginning to understand Division," he said in annoyance. This type of conversation was so routine that he was almost bored with where he knew it was going.

"Understand? How could I when no one explains why we do what we do."

"I've told you hundreds of times."

"And your arguments are pathetic."

"Because you don't bother listening!"

"Because it's not worth listening to!"

They glared at each other across the hall. Nikita kicked her duffel bag to the side and crossed her arms. Michael stood rigidly in place with his hands balled into fists. After Oleander, Amanda had put Nikita on Code Red – an agent who came into 'work' everyday and did every Operation as needed, a Runner. She spent her days hanging around Logistics or Ammunitions, waiting for the call to get on the field. Sometimes as a part of emergency backup, sometimes as part of an extraction team, sometimes to debrief other agents – whatever job needed to be done that day.

"_Did she say why she didn't react when Culotte held the gun to her?" Percy asked Amanda. Michael admired just how good of an actor Amanda was. The night at The Lamb's Club might as well have never happened as far as she was concerned._

"_Culotte was inexperienced, any sudden movements and she might have discharged the weapon out of panic," Amanda replied without missing a beat._

_Percy pulled a face, "Nikita's our fastest agent."_

"_She hesitated."_

"_And we can't have that, now, can we?"_

_Michael couldn't stop himself from glancing sideways at Amanda in involuntary panic. Percy noticed the movement and raised his eyebrows._

"_What do you suggest we do with her, Michael?"_

_He swallowed and composed himself. "She was activated less than three months ago."_

"_Are you making excuses for her failure?"_

"_She retrieved the phone card as you instructed. She completed her mission as far as she knew," he stated with a slight edge._

_Percy leant back in contemplation and then smiled, "You're right. Well then Amanda? She's your student..."_

_Amanda nodded, "Nikita's greatest weakness is her tendency to over-think in exigent situations. I think all she needs is a little more _experience_ and dialling her status to Code Red would mean daily exposure to Division's operations."_

"_Numbing her down...very good. Start tomorrow."_

Don't let go on us tonight,  
>Love's not always black and white.<br>Haven't I always loved you?

For the last eight months, she had been coming into Operations every day. Michael had seen her as much as when she'd been a recruit. Thing had become almost normal. Overtime, he even believed that she was starting to view Division his way. But then, two months ago, The Conversations had started again. After every mission, she would be angry. Regardless of whether or not it was elimination or counter-intel. She seemed to hate it all and he had no idea where the sudden change had come from.

She was even more aggressive than before she'd been activated to Code Red.

Every time they spoke, she would either be jumping at his throat or subdued and sarcastic. He couldn't get her to break a smile. And in between waiting for the next call of duty, if they both had a moment to spare, they would take to the sparring mats. He felt like every hit had some personal vendetta behind it.

"We've been through this before..."

"You told me that it was 'non-lethal where possible'," she said.

He threw his hands up, "Yeah! And it wasn't possible."

"You could have knocked him out! You didn't have to shoot him," she cried.

"Well he wouldn't have been as obliging," Michael growled, "He had a gun to your chest and I wasn't going to take that risk."

"So you killed him."

"I did."

She gave an exasperated sigh, turned on her toes and stormed into her training space. Picking up knuckle straps, she put them on and started to mercilessly pound at a boxing bag. He watched her for several moments then sat himself down in a chair, elbows resting against his knees and chin in his hands. The city spread out below him and time seemed to slow. Slowly, the lights inside each square window brightened. Or perhaps the sky just dimmed, he couldn't be sure. Building by building, street by street, the Hudson River was soon sparkling under the reflections of the city that never slept.

So entranced by the plethora of stars that spread out like some futuristic blanket, he didn't notice the sounds of skin on rubber coming to a stop. In his mind, he wondered if any one of those people in their cars, in their homes and living rooms, in their offices working overtime...would ever know, or even suspect, that their government was working to keep them safe.

And if they knew, would they care?

Soft hands where on his shoulders, they massaged down his back and brought him tumbling back into the cold hard reality that offered no sense of comfort to him.

"We'll always be the unsung heroes," he said quietly, "That's just who we are. I thought you had come to accept that."

"I'll accept it when we start doing the hero stuff," she said, leaning down with her breath tickling at his neck. Her previous anger had faded away in a flurry of fists, exfoliated from her body like the tingle of sweat on her skin. He wished he could shake his own struggles off as easily.

"Saving the world isn't enough?"

She laughed, her lips brushing against his skin. "Is that really what we're doing?"

"We busted a drug ring," he said, turning his head to get a better look at her.

That was a mistake.

Suddenly she was much too close. Operation Ungria rushed back to him. Images of shower robes, early morning coffee and evening gowns flashed before his glazed eyes. How easy it would be to close the two inch gap between them and give in to everything he wanted. Just like in Milan.

How easy, and yet, so hard.

They stayed suspended for several seconds, waiting.

"Michael..." she breathed.

He was staring at her lips, slightly parted and so tempting, because he couldn't look into her eyes. If he had glanced up, perhaps he would have stayed.

"I can't."

"What's changed?" she said, her voice breaking. He felt like an iron claw had gripped his insides and twisted.

"Nothing."

"There aren't cameras, I'm sure – "

"Nothing's changed. Things are the same as ever. We're still Division. My family is still dead, Nikita," he muttered, turning away to look back out the glass wall.

He felt the pressure on his back lift and she walked away. Sneaking a glance, he saw she had her hands on the counter, backed turned.

"So what was that? In Italy, was that just 'nothing'?"

_No..._

"Yes," he found himself saying.

"I was just your cover for the week..."

"Yes."

"Do you believe that?"

Michael found his throat had constricted. "Yes."

She stepped in front of him, hands on hips, "Then why are you here?"

He pulled his eyes away from the view and looked up at her. The screen had dropped back down in front of her features. But not in the fashion he had seen her when she was especially focused. Now, she was like a pillar of untouchable self-control and suppressed emotion. She stood tall and strong, but she was wounded. He could see it in the way she was trying to make herself seem taller.

It hurt.

"I should be going anyway," he heard himself say. "Rest tomorrow but we have VIP protection the day after."

"You're activating Peters, Heilbrun and Chang?"

"Huey, Dewy and Louie. Astoria Safehouse."

Michael made his way to the door, not looking back.

Nikita stood in the room, watching him as the rounded the corner and the unlighted hallway ate him up. "So you're going...just like that?"

There was no answer.

Bruised and battered by your words,  
>Dazed and shattered how it hurts.<p>

But when I'm with you,  
>I'm close to tears.<br>'Cause you're only almost here.

Michael stepped out into the corridor and slumped against the wall. He could barely believe that he had just walked out on Nikita. Her last words rang in his ears like a broken record player. She had sounded so hurt. Looked so hurt.

And he had done it to her.

The phone rang. It was Amanda. As per usual.

"_Michael, good flight?"_

"Fantastic."

"_Just calling to tell you your due for a debrief on Operation Ungria tomorrow at 10."_

He started to walk towards the elevators, "I thought we were guaranteed a day of recuperation."

"_Well, seeing as you and Nikita are going straight into protecting Senor Salvatore I thought it would be best to get it over with," _she drawled, _"And I can't wait to learn of all your lovely stories."_

"What are you insinuating?"

"_Well, from hearing Birkhoff complain about never been allowed in the field, I deduced that he must have overheard you two having a good time. I suppose Italy is nice this time of year."_

"It was hot."

"_I'm sure it was," _she said with an obvious smile, _"I'll see you in my office in the morning, then. Buonanotte."_

Michael hung up the phone and was about to step inside the open lift.

"Amanda?" Nikita said.

He swung around, heart suddenly racing and hands itching to grab at his weapon. Seeing who it was, his dropped his hand but if possible, his chest pounded even harder. She seemed composed, relaxed even.

"Debriefing tomorrow," he said clearing his throat and turning his back on her again. "You should only come in if you're called."

"Pretend I don't know about the appointments until Amanda tells me?" she replied observantly, "So she won't know you were at my place."

He exhaled silently, biting his lip.

"Exactly."

Nikita folded her arms and watched him step inside the elevator, finger on the door-open button, looking expectantly at a spot above her shoulder, waiting for her to reply.

"New York's kind of chilly in comparison isn't it?"

He continued to stare to the right of her and nodded slowly.

"You were wrong. Earlier this year – you were wrong."

He looked directly at her now, curious and wary, "What are talking about?"

She looked at him sadly, "When you said that you would always protect me." Something stirred within. Something possessive and masochistic. "But you haven't. Not from everyone."

He raised an eyebrow, "Whose hurt you?"

With one last, burning look she turned way, "You have."

Well I'm sorry that I took our love for granted.  
>Now I'm with you, I'm close to tears.<br>'Cause I know I'm almost here.  
>Only almost here.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Lyrics from "Almost Here" by Delta Goodrem and Brian McFadden.<strong>

**So sorry for the slow update. ****This term is packed with assessments so things will get pretty messy. But the last day of examinations is September 23****rd****, which is also to be the last of term. And ALSO happens to be the premier of Season 2! So until that beautiful day...**

**I have 11 more chapters outlined. And plan to finish chapter 24 on Sep 23****rd**** (which means I'll be writing through my exam block because I love you all **_**that**_ **much).**

**I'm skimming through 04 and 05. Really excited for 2006 which starts off with the Ari Tarsarov killjob that Nikita fails to execute "because your eight year old son was sitting next to you" and includes Daniel, Gustav the forger, Henry the intel-leaker, Whitfield, Owen being promoted from cleaner to reaper, the Engineer, how Nikita got her tracker removed, how she got her phoenix tattoo, Michael and Dana conversation ("I remember her...") + black boxes, Josephine Op, Nikita engagement, Daniel death, North Korean Kill Chip Op, finding the silo "turn left at the service hallway, sub-level six" and going rogue.**

**The rest, as they say, is history.**

_**The one thing I can't seem to explain is how Nikita managed to sneak a Division recruit mattress out to Whitfield's place. Um...any suggestions?**_

_**And if there's any particular line/scene that you absolutely HAVE to have explained (or you already have an explanation and just want me to write it), then give me a shout.**_


	14. Pale Fire: Bring Me To Life

Wake me up inside,

Call my name and save me from the dark.

"Michael!"

The figure clad in black continued to walk on. Nikita rolled her eyes in frustration.

"I know you can hear me," she sang, hands on hips. He took two more reluctant steps and swung around with a face like thunder about to blow. It had become a customary look for him. And she didn't like it. "Amanda just told me you aren't coming on the Op."

He looked across the 30ft gap between them and was surprised he could match her challenging gaze with a steady one of his own. For a moment, he had doubted he would have the strength.

"I have other business," he said shortly.

She gave an astonished laugh, "We've been working on intel for five months and you're just going to bail?"

"Percy," he emphasised the name, "has ordered me to stay here."

"Of his own accord or by your suggestion?"

Michael blinked, "What's the difference, either way I'm out."

"It makes all the difference in the world."

For a moment, there was a silence, an awkwardness, and both considered turning away. Running away. But neither could move an inch. There was still that lingering sense that something needed to be said. It had been coming on for awhile, that nagging feeling that _something needed to be said. _Nikita bristled as Michael broke the stare. He was always the one who broke their stares.

"Look..."

"Oh, I'm looking," she piped sarcastically.

He gave an ugly grimace, "It's probably better if we didn't work on overseas missions together anymore."

She raised her eyebrow sardonically, "So...You've run out of vacation leave?"

He frowned, "We always lose sight of our priorities."

Tempted to close the yawning gap between them with several quick steps and a sharp slap, Nikita simmered. She told herself that she was angry because all their preparation was centred around them as a pair, and now, just two weeks before launch, the plans had to be completely redone. For a person who valued organisation and structure, the new development did not help her confidence on an already dangerous mission. At least that's what the loud, confident voice in her head said.

The soft, small one in the back whispered that it would the first overseas assignment where she wouldn't have Michael beside her. Not that she particularly needed him – but it was moral support. True, she could hardly be called a dependent worker...but Michael's presence would mean that nothing had changed. That no matter what their relationship might be, however strange and indescribable, they would still always be there for each other on the field.

"We always complete the mission," she countered.

It was Michael's turn to raise the eyebrow, "Unconventionally."

"What's wrong with that?"

"It's unnecessary complication."

_Is that what you call it? _Nikita thought bitterly, thinking back as far back as Operation Lily to the most recent Ungria. "No reward without risk."

The sentiment hung warily between them. Both were thinking the same. What kind of reward? And would it be _worth_ the risk...

"You don't need me anymore," he said, voice softening to a tenderness that surprised her, "And this Op isn't hard."

She pushed down the bubbly feeling of flatter and narrowed her eyes, "We're going in blind."

"We have men on the inside and there's room for mistake," he reasoned, "You have a fifteen minute leeway, there's no need for any precision because you're going in hot and the fire will destroy all trace that you were ever there. Easy."

"Weren't you the one who always said that there's no such thing as an easy mission?"

"Well that was before I met you."

She was even more astonished, "Come on Michael, half of the missions I do with you end up getting us half killed."

He grinned, "And the other ones take about an hour."

"This is a two-man op," she stated, "Don't you want to be at least one of the men?"

He shook his head, turning away again. "You're worth both of them."

Nikita watched the retreating shape of his back. He was right, she knew. And she didn't like it.

You can't just leave me.

Breathe into me and make me real.

Bring me to life.

The property was huge. That was the only thing that registered in her mind for a long while. Still several miles off from the mansion, they were already technically inside Udinov borders. In the darkness, the pine forest was one big enveloping mass below their helicopter. Hovering slightly above the tree line with lights out, there was no way to tell how much time was passing. All she knew was that the chill air cut at the exposed parts of her wrists and neck and the swirl of the deadly blades above her thudded in a rhythmic beat that racked her body and brought on an onslaught of headaches.

Other than the grim faced pilot, she was alone. Other cells in the operation would come from within the compound itself or were already positioned on the outskirts of the forest, where it thinned as it sloped down towards the front drive. One of the five south side security guards would take out his comrades and lay accelerants to allocated parts of the house. The two men guarding the front entrance would be shot by the butler who would ensure that all operatives entered the building without opposition.

The right hand man, Sergei Semak, had already left the country. No one, not even the men in on the assassination would ever know what part he had played.

"10 minutes!" the pilot yelled over the roar of the propellers.

She nodded, focusing. She would enter through the front, move through the house and seek out the targets. Amanda had told her to prioritise Nikolai Udinov, other operatives would take down household staff and security.

"_It's true that a rival company has ordered the attack, Nikita, but that is not the only reason Udinov is our target. Not only does he mine in non-regulation, protected areas for his resources but he uses coercion, fear and murder to keep Zetrov on its feet. He has a reputation for being very cruel and funds a suspected Black-ops group that does his dirty work."_

"_Will he be armed?"_

"_He's a businessman, I'm sure you're more than capable of taking him on."_

_Nikita nodded slowly, "What about Ekaterina Udinov? Without Michael, our window for taking her down narrows, I have to get to both in twenty minutes."_

"_With luck, they'll be hiding in the same room. He'll try to protect her," said Amanda._

"_Two targets in twenty minutes, I guess I've had worse."_

"_Not quite," Amanda interrupted with a purse of her lips, "Michael's withdrawal isn't the only change in plans. We've had new orders that Pale Fire wants the entire Udinov empire to be destroyed."_

_She frowned uncomprehending, "I thought that was what we were doing."_

_The lady with the killer heels shook her head, "They want us to remove any possibility that Zetrov would return to power by any form of Udinov legacy."_

_Nikita was still mystified._

"_You have three targets. Nikolai, Ekaterina and Alexandra, their daughter, who has been trained to take over the family business," Amanda explained, "Twenty minutes. But you're right – you've had much worse."_

How can you see into my eyes like open doors,

Leading you down into my core,

Where I've become so numb.

"Operation Pale Fire is green. Go. Go. Go!"

Nikita pulled the gas mask over her face, levelled her pistol and ran inside. The exquisite interior, the crystal chandelier and gilded furniture, she barely noticed. It was the huge portrait hanging above the fireplace that stalled her. In between the faces of the regal woman and white haired man sat a little girl in a bright purple dress.

An Operative rolled a flash bomb down a corridor, and the East Wing went up in flames.

Bid my blood to run,

Before I come undone.

There was smoke. A lot of it.

She ran, looking left and right down hallways, kicking in doors only to whip her gun at empty rooms.

"_Perimeter secured."_

"_Three guards down!"_

"_2 minutes until north-east corridor detonates!"_

"_Accelerants ready!"_

"_Ready!"_

"_Team Beta need extraction at the West Wing!"_

"_West Wing detonated!"_

"_Extraction point secure!"_

Nikita rushed up a flight of stairs and stopped. Three hallways branched out in front of her. Two were burning, but her targets could already be behind those flames into the south side of the complex. Her heart raced. Sweat made her clothes cling to her. The heat was unbelievable.

"Any sign of targets?" she spoke into her Com, taking off the mask and wiping her face with a few hurried strokes of her jacket arm.

"_Negative."_

"_Nope."_

"_North East corridor detonated!"_

"_Mother in atrium! Mother in atrium!"_

"_Team Alpha, father heading to south side."_

"_Mother down."_

Running again, Nikita heard the woman's scream, cut terribly short with the finality that signalled certain death. Voices continued to chatter in her ear but the sound of the flames was starting to drown them out. She skidded on the polished floor and turned a corner. A wall of flame leapt up from the burning carpet, through the sudden glare, she saw two figures disappear into the last room on the right.

Backing a few steps, she sprinted down the length of the hall runner and jumped into the air. The toes of her boots were scorched and she landed in a messy crouch on the other side. Panting, she collected herself and pulled open the door.

Udinov's gun came into view. She fired. He fell.

Without a soul,

My spirit sleeping somewhere cold.

Frozen inside.

Over the sound her bullets, over the fire eating at every flammable thing in the room, over the voices in her ear...there was one thin, devastated shriek. A cry. A call for help. A scream of confusion.

"Father down."

Then she knelt, pulled on her mask and peered under the bed. Nikita found herself staring at the little girl in the picture. She cocked her gun and pointed it right at the target's head.

Alexandra looked back, wide eyed, covered in grime and tears, at the monster, the alien, with the strange head, all in black. The creature that had killed her father. Boots. Gun. Fire. She squeezed her eyes shut, more salt liquid pouring down her face. The thing would shoot her and she would die. Like her Mama.

Like her Papa.

Nikita fired. Alex slumped.

"Daughter down."

Save me from the nothing I've become,

Bring me to life.

Nikita threw her gun aside. It landed beside the rogue shot, fired at the floor. She reached for Alexandra's hands and pulled the girl out. The shock, or the smoke, or the whole horrible situation had knocked her out. The last thing she had seen in the girl's eyes was Evil.

A dark figure, faceless, emotionless. Hard black stone in a room of glowing red. No eyes. No soul. Just the barrel of a glinting gun. Robotic.

The girl stirred. Her limp arm reached for her father's. She grasped at his hand. Nikita tried to stand, to get her out. She didn't have much time. Soon, she would have to be at the extraction point. Alexandra Udinov needed to be safe.

She pulled Alex away.

"Papa..._HET!"_

"We have to go..." Nikita said, knowing the girl couldn't hear her anyway.

"_HET!"_ she cried, holding onto her Papa's lifeless hand with an iron grip.

"_Agent Nikita, update."_

Forcefully pulling the girl away from her father, she felt like she was tugging a piece of her own chest with it. Children weren't supposed to be separated from their parents. It wasn't fair. It wasn't natural. She bent down and unclasped the watch around his wrist.

"_Nikki, Gary says we have to go," Luke murmured, pulling at her jumper. Nikita knelt at the grave. Her mother lay in the freshly turned earth, watered by her tears. "Come on..."_

"_Nikita!" Gary cried._

_She didn't move. Gary came up behind her and grasped at her shoulder. He squeezed harder than necessary and bodily yanked her into a standing position._

"_It's time to go."_

"_No."_

"_What did you say?"_

"_I said no."_

_Grabbing her waist, he lifted her up and carried her away. She thrashed. Kicking and scratching at the binds that pulled her away from the only parent she had ever known. "NO! NO! You can't take me!"_

_He swung her around, still locked in his arms._

"_NOOOOO!"_

Passing the watch to Alex, the girl's eyes watered and she took it in her hands. But Nikita shook her mask, she tucked the heirloom into the girl's pocket and patted it. Then, holding her to her chest, stormed out of the room.

Without your touch,

Without you, love,

Darling only you are the light among the dead.

"_Alpha Team report."_

"This is Alpha Team, over," Nikita said hurriedly. An unconscious Alexandra was swung over her shoulder, a member of Nikolai's household who had escaped was at her gunpoint. Shots rang out in the distance, muffled by the snow that had started to fall.

"_Why haven't I gotten an update?"_

She didn't have much time.

"Executing affirmative sweep for survivors. Targets are down. Confirm with Roan," she lied breathlessly, not breaking eye contact with the man on the road. "будет думать дочь сжечь, понимаешь?"

He nodded, agreeing to keep the girl hidden.

"You're safe with him, I promise," she said, lying the girl gently in the back of the car. With her eyes closed, she almost looked asleep. Perhaps she would wake up and think it was a surreal nightmare. Perhaps she was still too young to register what had happened.

Nikita hoped that was the cased. And she wished it would be as easy for herself to forget what she had seen reflected in the innocence of the girl's eyes. Evil. Monstrous. Pale Fire had ordered the attack, yes, but she had been the one to carry it out. Almost carry it out. Almost.

"_You're worth both of them,"_ Michael's voice echoed in her head. She watched the car race away into the dark and rushed back up the hill to the extraction point.

But he was wrong. Because being worth two men would imply that she was human. And whatever she was, whatever she had become, whatever Division had moulded her to be – it was not that. It was not human.

"_Team Alpha, extraction in five."_

As she crested the hill, she stopped. The mansion was one huge burning silhouette against the dark night sky, against the white, crisp ground. Through the crackling, the gunshots and the noises of battle, Nikita could swear she heard laughter.

At first it sounded rather like Amanda on a good day. But on closer inspection, Nikita realised it was the sound of Fate. And she didn't like it.

She didn't like it at all.

Wake me up inside,

Call my name and save me from the dark.

Save me from the nothing I've become.

Bring me to life.

* * *

><p><strong>Lyrics from "Bring Me To Life" by Evanescence (but I was listening to the Katherine Jenkins cover). Many of the lines during the actual Op were taken from the episode <strong>_**Alexandra**_**. I tried to dictate the Russian straight from the episode but it was...difficult. So basically, HET = no, pronounced approx. 'niert'. будет думать дочь сжечь, понимаешь = This his daughter, they will think she burnt. Understood?, pronounced approx. 'bidyet dymat doich szhech, panmatye?' Any fluent Russian speakers feel free to correct me :)**


	15. Cities and Worlds: Little Lion Man

**Dedicated to Christina and all the wonderful peeps over at Baidu who've translated this story into Chinese (link on my profile) 3**

_**Previously...**_

!

"Those people had dreams...hopes...families," she said, "I took that away from them!"

"I'm glad!" said Michael.

"You're glad that I've ripped apart my soul?" Nikita cried.

"Yes! And if I had to, I'd ask you to do it again!"

!

"We're a family now. Because Percy was stupid enough put us in a position where we had to choose between what we'd been taught and what we believed."

!

She had grown accustomed to handling firearms and their presence offered a sense of safety, familiarity. Gone were the days when she would shudder at the sight of a pistol, hesitating the precious seconds away instead of pulling the trigger. Without the weight of a gun tucked into the back pocket of her jeans, she felt achingly empty. Her constant wielding of weapons was beginning to be one of the many things that defined her.

!

Amanda nodded, "Nikita's greatest weakness is her tendency to over-think in exigent situations. I think all she needs is a little more experience and dialling her status to Code Red would mean daily exposure to Division's operations."

"Numbing her down...very good. Start tomorrow."

!

"We'll always be the unsung heroes," he said quietly, "That's just who we are. I thought you had come to accept that."

!

How easy it would be to close the two inch gap between them and give in to everything he wanted. Just like in Milan.

How easy, and yet, so hard.

They stayed suspended for several seconds, waiting.

"Michael..." she breathed.

He was staring at her lips, slightly parted and so tempting, because he couldn't look into her eyes. If he had glanced up, perhaps he would have stayed.

"I can't."

!

A dark figure, faceless, emotionless. Hard black stone in a room of glowing red. No eyes. No soul. Just the barrel of a glinting gun. Robotic.

Pale Fire had ordered the attack, yes, but she had been the one to carry it out. Almost carry it out. Almost.

"_You're worth both of them,"_ Michael's voice echoed in her head.

But he was wrong.

Because being worth two men would imply that she was human. And whatever she was, whatever she had become, whatever Division had moulded her to be – it was not that. It was not human.

!

* * *

><p>Tremble for yourself, my man,<br>You know that you have seen this all before.

"Of course I recognised him. The man I killed was Nikolai Udinov," Nikita said stiffly, her legs crossed and arms close to her body. Her palms were clammy, the muscles in her thighs tighter than usual but she kept her voice even, self-assured and slightly bored. Amanda completed her circle of pacing and came to a stop in front of the impersonal plastic table.

"And Alexandra?"

Slow, concentrated breaths filled her lungs – which struggled to expand beside her thumping heart. Nikita blinked once and matched Amanda's X-ray eyes with an unwavering stare of her own.

"Kill shot to the head. Instant death."

Your grace is wasted in your face,  
>Your boldness stands alone among the wreck.<p>

"Congratulations," said Michael as they crossed in the hall. Nikita froze at the tone of his voice, her heart still racing from the debriefing with Amanda. Now that she had lied blatantly to Division's smug face, she felt like everyone must have a hidden agenda if she did. There was something off about Michael's voice, or the way he carried himself – his whole demeanour.

"What do you mean?" she asked a little too quickly.

"Pale Fire, I heard it was a success."

She forced herself to relax, to breathe, "Well, you did help prep for it so I should be the one doing the thanking."

Michael nodded, his face a blank wall of impenetrable stone. He made to turn away but a stray thought seemed to fly into his head and he halted.

"I didn't think you could do it."

On a normal day, she would have been mildly offended and spat out some sharp remark that would preferably make Michael blush but this time, she remained silent. Through the sudden iron grip on her jaw, she felt like something had ripped in the stratosphere. Once upon a time, the most satisfying thing in the world was to show Michael that she was good enough, as good as he was if not better. She had never truly believed in Division, she had treasured little fantasies of breaking out and being free, she had skirted their orders in small ways to soothe her conscience at night.

But never _ever_ had she completely defied direct orders. The only other time she had come even vaguely close to what she was doing now was with Whitfield. But even then, her orders had been to retrieve the money – eliminating him was implied but not specifically requested. Alexandra was an entirely different matter.

She was a target. A target that was still alive and one day, it would be inevitable, Division would hear of her whereabouts. And when Doomsday came, Nikita could bet that not only would her own days be numbered but so would the girl's.

"I did what I believed was right," she said cryptically.

"Taking out an anti-American businessman," Michael nodded, "Very noble of you."

She frowned at the sarcastic inflection in his voice, "Udinov was corrupt."

"And Alexandra?"

Nikita froze. "Michael..."

"Nikita the Righteous."

"Those were the orders you gave me!"

He glowered, "I didn't ask you to kill an innocent girl."

"Well then Percy did," Nikita cried, "And I thought you never asked questions."

He slammed a fisted hand against the wall, "Percy has his reasons."

"Are you trying to convince me or yourself...?"

"She was not a danger to our country. You should have – "

"What?" anger getting the better of her, "I should have _what_, Michael?" He looked up at her and was silent. Nikita realised that she wasn't the only one who felt like their world had flipped inside out. "I always told you that Division's – "

"_Not_ in here!" he hissed. "Look...just forget about it. Percy does have his reasons. You were right to eliminate her. If you hadn't, you'd have been eliminated yourself. I just wish..."

She looked down at the floor. "She was innocent." There was a long beat of silence, where many things should but weren't said. She knew that those things never would be because hearing them out loud would make them true. "But there have been others like her and there will be more. You know that Michael. And you have never seemed to care."

Catching her eye he shook his head, slowly, disappointedly, "If you really think that...then you obviously don't know me."

"Do you still think we're the unsung heroes?"

"Just tell me one thing," he muttered, "_Did_ you kill Alexandra Udinov?"

Rate yourself and rake yourself,  
>Take all the courage you have left.<br>Wasted on fixing all the problems,  
>That you made in your own head.<p>

They say that every city has its flavour, and that its inhabitants have some iconic way of life that is defined by that place. Some cities are busy and sophisticated, others are known for its sun and surf, some come alive at night while others have no night at all. Some people are ambitious, some are laid back, some love their sports, some love their food, some know how to party, some don't even know the meaning of the word 'party' – others just shop. Equatorial jungles sweat in the mornings, the steel and concrete variety sparkle after dark. Wide motorways and high speed in Germany, cobbled walkways and Vespers in France, bicycles and roadside produce in Vietnam. Chocolate from Switzerland, sushi from Japan, Shepherd's Pie and Sunday Roast and potatoes...

New York: The Big Apple.

Art and culture, business and economics, tall buildings and Central Park, Lady Liberty, Times Square, Long Island, the Hudson. The fashion district, the theatre district, the best restaurants, the best nightclubs, the best places to avoid. Guns and glamour, street gangs and shoes – the city of contradictions.

Complex.

Multifaceted.

Whispers beyond curtained kitchen windows. Secrets behind closed doors. Hideaways. Back alley businesses. The place around the corner that makes the best gourmet pizza and hazelnut gelato.

It's what they say.

It's what they see.

Two people. A couple. A fashionable couple. Inside a bustling cafe in the nicer part of town. Chez Josephine, with its cute canvas-covered terrace and jolly round tables. The woman is tall, elegant, with long legs covered in tights. They are red – a bold colour, startling, even.

Unusual.

It's why they look at her.

It's why they see her in the first place.

The man is understated – a suit, a white shirt, a grey tie. Simple. Conservative. They see that he's not someone who takes risks or gives into things easily. They see that he's stubborn. They watch the way she turns from him. The way she sits. The way she angles her body so she doesn't have to look him in the eye. Instead she stares out onto the street where the cars wheel by and wonders who is inside each of them. What are their lives like? Are their lives what they ever wished them to be? Are they living how they want?

She's jealous. She wishes she could be in those cars – stuck in traffic on the way to work. A simple building in Midtown. A simple place. A simple time. A beautiful simplicity.

The man, he tries to talk to her. He's trying to reason with her, they can see that much. They can see that she's also stubborn. She's not listening. She's pretending not to. She's afraid of what she will hear.

He gets angry. He gets frustrated and anxious and panicked. He doesn't want to lose her. He wants her to listen. But she will not. Their voices are raised. He pulls his above her. They hear words – "Pale Fire" and "Udinov."

She turns to him – she's angry, fiery, furious in her red tights. She's a beast, some carnal being of feminine power, of elegance in a ball of uncontained of human passion. It is something that he does not have. He's detached. Metallic. Cold. Calm. A facade, they think. Yet they cannot be sure for he wears it so well that it's become who he is.

In contrast she's open. In contrast she has her heart on her sleeve. In contrast she is the mountain that rumbles with thunder and lightning and sparks, and awes those who see her with the electricity she emits.

It is her turn to be frustrated.

She's frustrated at his response, at his lack of smile or frown – that he gives no word, no shrug, nor roll of the eyes. He doesn't stand up to leave, he doesn't lift a hand, he doesn'tt open his lips in defence. She hurls her insults at him, she hurls her arguments...as empty as they are.

She slumps, she's all spent. She stares at him and wonders what's going through his mind.

How she wishes she could know what was going through his mind.

More than she would like to know those people in those cars, more than anything else in the world. She wants to know what he's thinking and feeling, and yet, she knows that amongst her thousands of wishes, careless and hopeless – wished girlishly on shooting stars, her thousands of impossible dreams – knowing what this man wants or needs is the most hopeless of them all.

A fairytale.

Something to be humoured occasionally but never truly believed.

She knows that she will _never_ know.

She hurts. She stands up to leave with a determination that she doesn't feel. Scattered thoughts. Mouth pursed tight together so that he won't see how her bottom lip shakes and how close she is to giving up. She wanted so much for him to understand but he does not.

She steps away from the table, that jolly round table. He stands too and he grabs her. He flips her around, he holds her elbows and pulls them close to his side. He draws her in and whispers to her. Something soft that they cannot hear.

She looks at him pleadingly. Her lips still thin and tight, but her eyes are wide, large, innocent. She does not know what to do. He looks back and for a moment the metallic barrier of unnatural calm falls, his features so taunt and firm, relax...crumple. He wants her to understand what he feels just as much as she wants him to understand her. And yet they do not understand.

And yet they are both stubborn.

They see this and they shake their heads – those silent viewers who speak of cities around the world. These two people. A couple. A fashionable couple. Are just two more people in the great world they see.

And this moment, merely just another moment in a world full of moments just like this.

He looks at her and says, "_please_." A single, painstakingly soft and hard (both at once), and earnest sound. A single syllable that breaks her. She wants to say that she agrees with.

But she cannot.

And she looks inside herself but she knows the answer. She knows the answer already. That she cannot turn away from what she believes in. Away from what she stands for. Away from what she's done.

So she looks at him and she echoes two words, "I can't."

He looks back and echoes too, as if in a trance, "What's changed?"

She pulls away, extracting those elbows so close to his side, and says, "Nothing."

They watch as she walks from the cute canvas-covered terrace cafe of that big city of an even bigger world. They look and they see those bold, brave red tights. They see her walk down that street. They see that she does not look back. And what they do not see is that her lips are no longer in a tight pursed line.

And that her bottom lip shakes.

But it was not your fault but mine,  
>And it was your heart on the line.<br>I really fucked it up this time.  
>Didn't I, my dear?<p>

Nikita replaced the equipment, removing the straps around her knuckles and threw them on the floor. Usually a training regime would soothe her rattled soul and all her fury would fly out in a mushroom cloud of fists and grunts and sweat. She would wipe her brow and everything would be better.

But not today.

Everything that she had been feeling – she was still feeling. The events of the day had shattered her in a way she had never believed possible. Michael had seemed almost on the verge of some great transformation back at Division and later when he'd called and demanded a meeting, she was certain that it was to explain that he no longer wanted to follow Percy around like a dog on a leash. Instead, she'd found him coming to apologise for his almost-but-not-really anti-Division words and to warn her not to get any ideas from what he called his "lapse in concentration."

Then she'd lost it.

She had come so close to telling him about Alex but his own stubbornness, his own inability to see what he had been so close to seeing, had stopped her. She had been so afraid at the start, afraid to listen because she was scared that what he would say would change things.

Realising, with all the enthusiasm of a dousing of cold water, that he was the same as ever – the same, immoveable figure of soldierly obedience was the only thing worse than thinking things would change. It was knowing that _nothing_ had. And she accepted the sinking feeling that nothing ever would.

That was what shattered her.

It hurt, knowing that if she wanted to change things she was going to have to do it alone. If she wanted to run, she would have to run alone. If she wanted to fight against Division, she would have to fight alone. It hurt. It all hurt.

Weep for yourself, my man,  
>You'll never be what is in your heart.<p>

Weep Little Lion Man,  
>You're not as brave as you were at the start.<p>

"Michael, moment please?" said Percy coming into Operations with eyebrows raised expectantly.

Birkhoff looked up from his usual workplace and muttered, "Have fun."

Dropping easily into his boss' stride, Michael took the list that was passed to him. "What's this?"

"Your next assignment. Track down these agents and start intensive Level VII training," Percy ordered, marching into his office. "Amanda, what have you got for me?"

She nodded once at Michael and then passed a flash drive across the mahogany desk. "Here's the debrief of Pale Fire. Communications is dealing with any media leakage that may happen over the next few months. I think we can close the books on this one."

Percy nodded, "Names?"

"Just one," she picked up swiftly, undeterred by the sudden change in topic, "Owen Eliot. Exceptional reflexes. A spotless record from his agent days, and an additional five years of Cleaner service."

"Then he's our man. Get Roan to start advanced training ASAP."

Amanda tipped her head and sauntered out. Michael looked back down at the sheet in his hands. "Er...sir?"

"Those three names are highly confidential information, do you understand me?" Percy said very seriously. "It does not leave this room."

A crease formed between his eyes, "These are all Cleaners. The Level VII course would be too easy for them."

"Well, let's perfect the basics first."

Michael looked up bewildered, "I said it would be easy not that it was 'basic'. It'll still take months."

"I've had the liberty of placing you in Code Yellow. Inactive status until further notice. Put 200% of your energy on working with these three agents. I want them flawless, you hear me? Lethal in every aspect of the game," he grinned with an almost boyish smile. "Once you think they're ready – give me the call."

He nodded slowly, scanning down the short list of the names, "Ready for what?" Percy smiled mysteriously. "Who's Eliot?"

"A Cleaner, about to learn a particular branch of his trade. He and two other lucky fellows will replace your new students once they're ready. All I need is for you to promise me that you will keep these actions under wraps," Percy peered at his man's face.

"Of course, sir," he replied, "But if I'm inactive, then who'll replace _me_?"

Eyes sparkling, the big guy behind the desk leant back in satisfaction, "Nikita. Pale Fire was to see if she could handle the pressure. We all know the one chink in her armour is that inconvenient little conscience of hers...well, if she can take out young Alexandra then I'm sure she's more than ready for any challenges awaiting her as my new right hand man."

Michael stared. "So that's why you took me off the Op."

"I always have my reasons, you know that," Percy soothed, "Now. I think you should head to Pennsylvania and start with Miss Dana Winters, seeing as you have such a knack for working with our female recruits."

Choosing not to answer, Michael carefully folded the sheet of paper and made to tuck it away.

"Oh no...that sheet remains with me," Percy held out an open hand for the prize, "By the way, Michael, if you hadn't realised...I've promoted you. Congratulations."

Tremble Little Lion Man,  
>You'll never settle any of your scores.<p>

Her phone buzzed and Nikita rolled over on the spacious bed. It was Michael.

_OP DOUBLE HELIX REPORT FOR BREIF 0800. ACTIVATED TO CODE GREEN._

She lay back with a sigh, "Yeah...nothing's changed."

But it was not your fault but mine,  
>And it was your heart on the line.<br>I really fucked it up this time.  
>Didn't I, my dear?<p>

Didn't I, my dear.

* * *

><p><strong>Lyrics from "Little Lion Man" by Mumford &amp; Sons. *Dies* I rewrote this chapter in so many different ways and hated all of them. Ah well, here you go. Hopefully my Muse comes back after the Teen Choice Awards tomorrow (where Nikita win everything ^^ *fingers crossed*)<strong>


	16. Agenda 1: Battlefield

**Previously...**

!

The moment from earlier in the day was gone. Michael faded back into the wallpaper. She didn't need his help anymore, she didn't need his comfort or his support. She was back in control. Fiery, dominant and untouchable. He had a feeling he wouldn't see her vulnerable again in a long time. Part of him took pride in knowing he had helped create such a creature, but part of him was sad.

She wasn't Nikki, the feisty recruit he usually saw.

She was Nikita. And he was scared shitless.

!

She had come so close to telling him about Alex but his own stubbornness, his own inability to see what he had been so close to seeing, had stopped her. She had been so afraid at the start, afraid to listen because she was scared that what he would say would change things.

Realising, with all the enthusiasm of a dousing of cold water, that he was the same as ever – the same, immoveable figure of soldierly obedience was the only thing worse than thinking things would change. It was knowing that _nothing_ had. And she accepted the sinking feeling that nothing ever would.

That was what shattered her.

!

"I've had the liberty of placing you in Code Yellow. Inactive status until further notice. Put 200% of your energy on working with these three agents. I want them flawless, you hear me? Lethal in every aspect of the game," he grinned with an almost boyish smile. "Once you think they're ready – give me the call."

Don't try to explain your mind,  
>I know what's happening here.<br>One minute it's love,  
>And suddenly it's like a battlefield.<p>

Michael watched through the glass pane of Operations with a self-satisfied glint in his eyes, arms folded and silently proud of the three students working at shooting drills in the Common. It was past ten and all the recruits had gone to bed, ready for their 5am fitness sessions – the whole complex was asleep. On the other side of the screen, Winters, Steinbeck and Kim were engaged in a tense, digitally stimulated gundown. They'd been working non-stop for seven hours and Michael was grudgingly impressed.

"Hold your fire!" Steinbeck cried, leaping from his position behind a pillar, shooting at the air, hurdling a low barrier and crashing to the ground behind it with chest heaving.

"Incoming!" warned Winters who was preoccupied with enemies of her own. Her swift shots and ducks at the invisible foes were executed flawlessly. She hadn't seemed to have tired at all.

Nearly half of decade of training soldiers in a unit that only tolerated the elite of the elite, and yet he had never come across such superb agents as those dashing across the floor below. Their technique, endurance and accuracy were next to none he had ever seen. Their ability to work seamlessly as a team, right from day one, and yet mercilessly pound each other on the mats, their efficiency with every kind of weapon but most importantly, their inbuilt fighter instinct was astounding. Michael was thankful that as their mentor, he never had to drill them himself – he was sure they could win and knew that his ego wouldn't recover well from such a beating.

"One o'clock, your one o'clock!"

Steinbeck did another athletic trick before his black suited body disappeared out of sight.

Michael vaguely recalled Percy's words, "_You should be honoured. These aren't your normal street urchins – they're battle-trained agents with Cleaner exposure and further experience as Reaper's. And of the team of Reaper's, these three are the top. They're not just the best of the best. They're the best of the best of the best of the best. And your job is to make them _even _better. Have fun."_

The sounds of the fight went on. The stimulation would end when the Division team lost, but from the looks of it – that wouldn't be for some time. He let his mind drift and didn't hear the soft footsteps that drew up behind him.

"Piece of art, aren't they?"

Michael jumped. Percy's hands were deep in his pockets and his usually sardonic expression was now in one of great contentment – like a cat with a particularly fresh bowl of thick cream.

"They could be ever better than you, Michael," the boss said lightly.

"I wouldn't be too sure," he replied through gritted teeth.

Percy laughed, "My joke. No hard feelings?" He frowned a little in an offended sulk. "Well...if there's one thing I can be certain of, it's that they're in good hands. If you weren't such a good teacher I'd have put _you_ in this program."

"Thank you, sir."

"Good soldier," he cooed, "I never realised what a brilliant job you'd done on Nikita. Double Helix was a booming success. You should be proud."

Michael refrained from responding. Double Helix involved more scientific espionage than protecting the nation. Another hired job. Only this time it seemed Nikita hadn't disapproved, there was only his own conscience tugging at him. _She_ had executed the plan spotlessly and without a single peep of discomfort. He wondered why that was causing _him_ some unease.

"But Amanda's still got some bone to pick with her. Women's business. Nevertheless, the cutting of the diamond was all you – she's just giving it that last bit of polish. And to think where that gem came from..."

Michael turned his head a little too eagerly. Curiously. Confused, too. What did Percy mean?

"Come from where?"

The man chuckled. "Dark times...dark times...Well, three more months and you can start your students on a new course called the Specialist Program. Intense fitness, extreme exigent drills and 75% fieldwork combined with extended sessions with Amanda to work on building believable deep cover."

He withdrew from an inside pocket a small bottle of pink pills, "Oh, and these. For optimal performance."

Michael raised an eyebrow, "Steroids?"

"And hormones, acids and dextral amphetamines," he replied with a crooked grin.

"What...exactly am I training them for...?"

Percy tucked the pills back out of sight and rubbed his hands together in anticipation, "The future!"

One word turns into a war  
>Why is it the smallest things that tear us down?<p>

Can't swallow our pride,  
>Neither of us wanna raise that flag.<br>If we can't surrender then we're both gonna lose.

"Michael, one moment you're telling me to keep quiet and shine Percy's shoes and the next you're _accusing_ me of losing my integrity?"

He turned his head away, sucking his cheeks in and pulling trembling fingers through his hair. Nikita's rage was sudden and, in his opinion, misplaced. It wasn't like he'd 'accused' her, per se. Since when did a careless line said over the phone warrant a confrontation in Operations?

"Would you keep your voice down?" was the only thing he managed to spit out.

She rolled her eyes. "Only Nerd here, what's there to hide?"

Birkhoff swivelled on his chair and huffed indignantly, "So what am I? The nursemaid?"

"He could've gone with the butler but he calls himself the girl with the frilly apron," Michael snapped sarcastically, "Explains a lot."

"Shut up."

"Creative comeback..."

"Well I'm not the one who told Nikki she was a baby-killer."

"I didn't kill the child!"

"No one said you did!" Michael jumped in quickly.

"You implied it."

"A misunderstanding."

She crossed her arms, "You said, I quote, _first domestic assault, congratulations._"

"I was complimenting you," he argued.

"You used the word 'assault'."

"Which is the technical term for an attack on a civilian family for counter-intel purposes!"

Once again Birkhoff jumped in, "See guys here's how it stands. Nikita, you think that he's congratulating you for killing the baby. In actual fact, he was congratulating you for _orphaning_ the baby. Major difference."

Neither agent saw the humour. The techie made a face and turned back to his trusty screen. All that underlying tension was giving him claustrophobia. Sooner or later they would either kill each other or sleep together – it was one of life's inevitable conclusions (and he would be sure to be front and centre when it happened.)

Nikita raised an eyebrow, "What do want me to do? I'm being You now, remember, and when you were in my spot, Mr McBoy-Scout never raised a finger against Division."

"I'm not asking you to."

"Then maybe you could work on your tone."

He laughed in disbelief, "Are you seriously asking me to think about the tone of my voice?"

She shrugged a shoulder, "It's what Amanda always says..."

After a beat, Michael finally pulled the trigger line, "Look...you have to let go of this...this...obsession with doing the right – "

"_Obsession..."_

"Just hear me out," he held out a hand. She simmered in barely concealed fury again. "Until you stop working for us – you're never going to say 'no'. I know it's hard to hear, but that's the truth. You might not like it but just like Pale Fire and Double Helix and Lucifer and Prince, you will always say 'yes'."

"He's right, you know. If you don't like something, change it. If you can't change it, change the way you think about it. This place might suck balls but just think, we're the battleship that brought down Hitler. That's gotta cheer you up."

"Birkhoff, would you just...stop..."

"Dude! We killed Hitler! If that doesn't make her feel better than I dunno what will," he threw up his hands with eyes wide.

Michael sighed. "I'm held up training the agents until at least the New Year. Every Operation that would have been coordinated or led by me is now your sole responsibility. You head Grab Team A, run on-the-ground logistics with three emergency Dispatch Units, act as principal leader of the Extraction Department and plan regimes and prep drills for the recruits."

She tossed her head, "Sounds like a lot of paperwork...but I think I can handle it."

"I'm being serious."

"So am I."

"Listen, what I'm trying to say is that you're in this now – whether you like it or not. Why do you think Percy chose _you_? Why not Roan?"

"Because he's head of the Cleaners. I still remember the day I walked into Division only to hear that a colleague I thought had _died_, was actually being trained to remove traces of other people's existence," she recounted, "I hear he's good at what he does. Has an instinct for killing."

"And you don't?"

"Mike..." Birkhoff said in alarm.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she challenged. Michael disregarded both their warnings and ploughed on.

"To get to where you are, you didn't just have to sit an exam and pass a background test. You're here because you went through with Percy's orders, did what was asked of you and more, showed initiative and proved yourself again and again as a good agent," he gestured, "And you're _kidding_ yourself if you think that you've been 'forced' into this. You're in this as much as I am. So stop trying to act like you don't have blood on your hands. The difference is that I believe in what we're doing. You don't. But you have _nowhere_ to go so you might as well drop the act."

"You say you believe in this," she waved her arms at the rooms, "But you don't like it when I complete Ops like that last one. So maybe _you_ should be the one dropping the act."

"I don't like it, yeah, but at least I know Percy has his reasons. You're just so prejudiced against him. You think that every mission is just to line his pockets."

She smiled stiffly, "I recall something called Operation Oleander. Do you?"

"And you hold grudges."

"You blame me? He put both our lives in danger!"

"And if you don't fix your attitude, he'll cancel you on the spot anyway!" Michael yelled, "When you're acting as Percy's Second, there's no room for doubting. You have greater access than ever which means that you'll constantly be tested. At even the slightest hint of disloyalty, he'll drop you."

"Attitude makeover? Who are you, my mother...?"

Her nonchalance, her stubbornness and arrogance was starting to jar at his nerves. Without thinking, Michael said the first thing that jumped to mind. "Nikita! You have no mother! She died, then the only foster mum who ever cared about you died as well. _We_ built you up again. The least you could do to thank us is to at least have a bit of faith."

She looked like she had been punched in the gut. A huge wall of guilt quickly settled in and his spurt of anger deflated with all the anti-climax of an un-popped balloon.

"Niki – "

"Don't."

"I didn't mean – "

"_Don't_," she said again, "I get it, okay? You want me to see this place like you do. I can't. But I'll try. Thanks."

As the door closed behind her, Birkhoff looked up with a knowing face. "You're in so much shit. She must be seriously pissed if she can't even argue with you anymore. Nicely handled."

Michael found his fingers start to tremble again. He stared at the door, wanting Nikita to come back and rage at him. Her stony acceptance of his logic chilled him. A nerve that should never have been touched, had been hit. Clearing his throat, he finally trusted his voice enough to tell Birkhoff to stick it where it hurt, but inside he was already dreading what the consequences would be.

And he didn't know if he could handle them.

I never meant to start a war,  
>You know I never wanna hurt you.<br>Don't even know what we're fighting for.

Why does love always feel like a battlefield?

* * *

><p><strong>"Battlefield" by Jordin Sparks. Sorry it's been a few. Trying to write in between the stress...can anyone teach me the entire history of JudaismChristianity/Islam? Part 2 of this chapter coming up :)**


	17. Agenda 2: Rolling In The Deep

**Previously...**

!

"To get to where you are, you didn't just have to sit an exam and pass a background test. You're here because you went through with Percy's orders, did what was asked of you and more, showed initiative and proved yourself again and again as a good agent," he gestured, "And you're _kidding_ yourself if you think that you've been 'forced' into this. You're in this as much as I am. So stop trying to act like you don't have blood on your hands. The difference is that I believe in what we're doing. You don't. But you have _nowhere_ to go so you might as well drop the act."

"You say you believe in this," she waved her arms at the rooms, "But you don't like it when I complete Ops like that last one. So maybe _you_ should be the one dropping it."

!

"Nikita! You have no mother! She died, then the only foster mum who ever cared about you died as well. _We_ built you up again. The least you could do to thank us is to at least have a bit of faith."

!

There's a fire starting in my heart,  
>Reaching a fever pitch and it's bringing me out the dark.<br>Finally I can see you crystal clear,  
>Go ahead and sell me out and I'll lay your ship bare.<p>

"We have to talk about this," Amanda said calmly, for about the fiftieth time. For the last half an hour, her carefully crossed legs, manicured hands and patient demeanour had sat on the couch trying to get her student to talk. She had tried being understanding, tried subtle jabs, even threats – but Nikita hadn't said a word. Even for Amanda, the attitude was starting to get on her nerves. Her already plastic smile was becoming, if possible, more plastered.

"I understand that things have been rough with you and Michael," she tried again with soothing kindness, "And I know that your promotion has added more pressure so the need to de-stress and connect grows stronger. I'm a woman too, I understand."

The agent stared and wondered how this could be the same person who'd once met them at The Lamb's Club. She'd seemed like a friend, someone to be trusted. Amanda was one hell of an actress and though her detailed knowledge of the above-board relationship with Michael was unnerving, the idea that she could double-cross Percy was more so. It was that thought which held Nikita back from trusting her. Amanda had an agenda – she just didn't know what it was.

"Let's start at the beginning," Amanda's voice penetrated her thoughts, "Again."

Nikita blinked back. Amanda didn't expect much of a response so she tried another tactic, "Did you enjoy Op Mosaic?"

_I orphaned a child, as Michael and Birkhoff so kindly reminded me..._

"No hitches," Amanda said carefully.

"You debriefed me," she said shortly.

"Indeed."

After several more moments of silence, the questioner poured out a cup of tea and leant forward slightly. "Perhaps you're upset because you expected Michael to help you transition into this new phase of your life. After all, who better to teach you how to step into his own shoes? But now he's preoccupied with these highly skilled and very talented recruits and you barely get to see him anymore."

That struck a chord. Nikita sat up and with a small smile declared, "This session is over."

"It will be over when I say it is," Amanda said, all her older sisterly act disappearing in a flash. "We need to address your issues with – "

"Michael?" she cut in. "It's not as romantic as you might think. Where he chooses to spend his time is none of my business."

"You're unaffected by his new schedule?" Amanda continued to probe, "You haven't had an assignment together for nearly half a year. It must be hard to work with other agents."

"I manage."

"And your results are exceptional," she smiled, "I believe that you will be perfectly capable in any mission you might be handed. You were born to be in Division." Nikita didn't reply. "As much as you like to deny it, Michael _is_ an issue and sooner or later, we'll have to deal with it. Now I can either force you to, or we can talk about it like adults."

She merely stared.

"Your silence won't change anything," Amanda said softly. "Problems don't go away just because you ignore them."

"Problems? Plural? What else do you think is wrong with me..."

"No need to be bitter. It's just that there are still unresolved items that we've yet to successfully address. For one, your sense of moral and ethical decency."

"My conscience?" she said, "As much as you'd like to hope, that isn't something that can be knocked out of my system like...drugs."

The woman folded her arms, "Then let's remember who did rehabilitate you and put you back on your feet, Nikita. You have a debt to repay. The first step is to be honest with me. What goes on inside these walls stays inside these walls."

Nikita's eyes narrowed sceptically, "Then why are these sessions recorded?"

"Formality."

"I don't believe you."

"Well you should," said Amanda, "I speak the truth. And I would like you to do the same. You feel _controlled_. Please understand that I am not here to do that."

Nikita levelled the woman with another suspicious stare. Amanda leaned forward intently, "There has only been one person you've ever trusted and that's Michael. But now you feel that connection is waning and you only ever talk to argue. That must be painful."

She gritted her teeth without realising it. "Maybe I like my pain."

Amanda reached forward and rested a manicured hand on her knee, "You don't have to suffer alone. I'm here to help. We can use that feeling to make you into a better agent...a better person. You're a good soldier, very naturally gifted, but you could be great. You could be the best. And I want to make sure you reach your potential – it would be such a shame if you didn't."

"How will my pain make me better?" she asked curiously.

"Do you know why Michael is drifting from you?" Amanda asked lightly. Nikita shook her head, eyes narrowing suspiciously once more. "Because he's finally waking up."

"What do you mean?"

With a pitying expression, Amanda patted her knee, "You look remarkably like Elizabeth, Nikita."

She jumped away from her touch, "You're lying."

"Like I said, I only ever speak the truth."

"No. You're lying," she cried again, hearing her own voice break.

Amanda shook her head sadly, "Michael has been lying to himself...and to you."

Nikita stared, feeling like her whole world had fallen in. She wished she had walked out when she'd threatened to. She wished she had never heard. The truth? The truth.

"Sometimes it's a hard pill to swallow. But it's necessary if you want to start feeling better," Amanda preached. "It's the road to recovery. To rebirth, regeneration. Only when you let go of your pain, can you really start to heal."

For however many minutes, it could have been hours, Nikita didn't know, Amanda sat there watching her greatest student. She saw the emotions flicker across her face and a tiny part of her regretted having to tell the lie – necessary, but still, regretful. Michael was the one thing holding Nikita back. He was the one 'but' in the sentence, the one term and condition that applied. She would never excel until she let him go. Physically, yes that was easy, but emotionally and spiritually he had become the one last link between her and normalcy. Amanda had always noticed that weakness, that longing to have a normal life. Simply telling her student that she was never _meant_ to be normal hadn't worked. Now, it had come the time to slap her to her senses. Percy had taken the step of allowing her greater access than ever.

It was nearly time. She needed to be ready for what lay ahead.

Nikita had forgotten all about Amanda's acting. Her ability to put up a facade and play it like a pro was what made her so valuable to Division. While she tried to come to terms with the new revelation, she forgot about Amanda's agenda. She didn't know, and couldn't have suspected, that the reason Amanda wanted to so desperately mould her into a ruthless, undefeatable killing machine was so that one day they could run the unit together.

Percy had overstepped himself with Oleander last year and Oversight had been waiting for a window for months. Amanda was that foot in the door, but alone, she was useless. She was incomparable at what she did but to take down the current dictatorship, they needed a fighter – a warrior. So in stepped Nikita, who, from the moment Amanda had seen her as a recruit, had been privately groomed to be the weapon that would topple Percy. Her combative skills, her mental steel and her perpetual questioning of her boss made her perfect. She had the physical ability to beat him to the ground. She had the mental ability to earn his trust. Most importantly, she had the desire to change things.

The only barrier Amanda had come across was Michael. As long as he was an option, Nikita would forever be dreaming of an unrealistic life with him. She wouldn't want to overturn the administration, she would put all her energy into getting out.

And they couldn't have that.

The promotion had been the opportunity Oversight had been waiting for. With her so close to Percy, everything was finally falling into place. Amanda had been given six months to prepare her. Soon she would have to let her in on the plan, completely open up to her student and convince her to bring the Overlord down. The first meeting with the Senator, the Admiral and the Joint Operations Director was scheduled for the first of December later that year. With not a minute to lose, it was time for Nikita to let go of her liability and become what she was meant to be.

"It's time to let go of this pain," said Amanda.

Her student nodded slowly. "What do I have to do?"

A spreading smile, full of genuine emotion, came across Amanda's face. "Firstly, forget everything Michael ever told you. Your job isn't to work for Percy – it's to work for Division. Do you understand the difference?"

Nikita grinned, "The devil's in the details, right?"

See how I'll leave, with every piece of you,  
>Don't underestimate the things that I will do.<p>

The mobster lay on the ground, beaten half-unconscious and sporting a large, spreading bruise on his forehead. Nikita pointed the gun at him.

"Where's the money!"

"I don't know what you're talking about!"

She bent down and slammed the brass knuckles across his face. He coughed up blood. The red liquid mixing in with his salt tears. "Let me ask you _again_, where's the money?"

"Please...don't..."

_WHAM!_

"Tell me!"

"Stop this you BITCH!'

_WHAM!_

"_I'm not telling you nothing!"_

She pointed the gun at his groin and cocked it. The sound echoed off the walls and fear wavered in his eyes. "Not every shot's a killer. If I have to ask one more time...how much do you value your balls?"

The man whimpered.

The scars of your love remind me of us.  
>They keep me thinking that we almost had it all.<br>The scars of your love, they leave me breathless.

Michael was greeted by the familiar sound of music. He immediately felt a migraine coming on. As was his habit, he peeked into each room as he walked pass but of course, she was right in the middle of an intense training session in the main room. And as was another habit of his, he stopped for a moment on the threshold of crossing into that main room and admired the view of the city. It never got old.

"Hey!" he yelled above the music.

She didn't seem to hear.

"NIKITA!"

With a jump, she spun around, fist raised then let a huge breath out as she realised it was him. The beat disappeared as she flicked off the stereo to be replaced a strange ringing that filled his ears in the sudden silence. The contrast always made him twitch.

"What are you doing here?"

"Can't I drop by?"

She shrugged, reaching for her towel, "Not when the last time was in April."

"Missed me?" he teased.

The joke seemed to be lost on her and she replied with a cold, "Not at all."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Is it the last Op? I heard you had to give some guy a hard time."

She looked up. "You think I'm not capable of turning on the heat?"

His eyebrows rose dramatically. The very real anger in her voice surprised him. "I just thought..."

"When are you going to understand that I can look after myself? The man was a drug dealer and a smuggler. It was necessary," she said with an edge.

"You've changed your tune," he commented wryly.

"When you can't change something, change the way you think about it."

I can't help feeling,  
>We could have had it all.<br>Rolling in the deep,  
>You had my heart inside your hand,<br>And you played it to the beat.

Amanda and Percy watched the scene in Nikita's apartment from the cameras installed almost a year ago. Michael's gobsmacked expression said it all. Percy turned to Amanda and nodded approvingly.

"You worked your magic."

"Is that a surprise?"

He tipped his head and went back to looking between the many screens displaying the scene.

"_Everything I do is in service to Division," _Nikita was saying.

Percy chuckled. "Well, I don't think we need to do any more surveillance. She seems pretty sure of herself. Get someone to remove the gear from her apartment while she's on her next Op. The agent deserves some privacy, she's earned it. You too, Amanda, good job. I'll be away for a few days so I trust you'll hold down the fort."

"Certainly," she assured him, "If I may ask, where are you going?"

"To meet a very special man."

"Special how?"

"Genius," Percy said, obviously enjoying keeping Amanda in suspense, "An artist of the engineering trade."

"An engineer?" Amanda frowned, "Of what?"

Percy pulled on his suit jacket and wiggled his eyebrows teasingly. "Little black boxes..."

When the boss had disappeared, Amanda looked back up to the screen. _Boxes...?_

"_Michael...you always wanted me to see things your way. What's the problem?"_

He looked at her for a long while before speaking very deliberately, _"When you were a junkie...who helped off the habit?"_

Nikita laughed nervously, _"Why are you...?"_

"_Who helped you?"_

"_Caroline," _she said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, _"Now tell me why you're asking."_

Michael didn't respond but he nodded to himself, as if verifying some silent question. Amanda's heart sank. Though Nikita didn't know the significance of what she had said, her two teachers both noticed it. At the very bottom of her existence – she still didn't consider Division as her saviour, or her home. She still subconsciously thought of a civilian and that life that had been taken away from her. A single question with very different answers: she could have said 'Amanda', she could have said 'Division', she could even have said 'Michael'...but no, she had decided on 'Caroline'.

So Nikita never complained about Ops anymore. So all that anarchist fire had disappeared. So Percy had promoted her _again_. So what? So, nothing.

Amanda could dedicate hours and hours to slowly brainwashing (or what she called 'rebooting the system') her to see things through the right coloured lenses, but at the bottom of it all was still that little part that couldn't be taken away.

That little thing that made Nikita, Nikita. It was what originally drew Amanda's attention. Nikita looked nothing like Elizabeth, Amanda knew that perfectly well, but she had spoken the truth when she'd said that she acted as Michael's reminder that a normal life existed somewhere out there. Elizabeth had been normal. Nikita was the same. Her eyes didn't cloud over with that kind of detachment that other agents seemed to wear.

"_Michael, when I was a recruit...what made you...why was I different?"_

He looked up at her and shook his head, _"I don't know."_

"_Don't you?"_

"_No..."_

"_So it was just...one of those things?"_

He looked at her strangely, _"I guess..."_

She turned away from him and nodded, _"Right. You work for Percy but you're such a bad liar. Funny how that is."_

"_Firstly, what am I supposed to be lying about? And secondly, you work for Percy to."_

Nikita shook her head, _"No. I work for _Division_."_

"_What are you talking about?"_

"_Nothing. Just thinking aloud."_

Amanda smiled grimly. She might not have been able to knock everything out of her student but at least she'd succeeded in planting that one, vital seed. With mild satisfaction, she took a last look at Michael's baffled face and disabled the surveillance system. The first of December couldn't come fast enough.

Now I'm gonna wish you never had met me.  
>You had my heart and soul.<br>Tears are gonna fall, rolling in the deep.

Percy was having a good laugh reading the debrief of their latest mission. It was an assignment in Texas that involved five death-row criminals, skirting the US legal system and a lot of cold, hard cash. What was giving him the guffaws was Roan's account of Nikita's brutal, but necessary, handling of one of their targets. He could almost hear the surprise in the Cleaner's words as he skimmed over the sentences.

'_After the situation was dealt with, Nikita didn't even blink. She just collected the bags and called for Extraction. It was unusual.'_

"Unusual, ha!"

Nodding in approval, he rested a hand over a rectangular, black metal box on his desk and caressed it. If he wasn't afraid of throwing Nikita and Michael together again, he would consider putting one of his precious new devices in _her_ capable hands. With another giggle, Percy stepped out of his office, stomach grumbling in discontent, and pondered on the veal or the lamb for _le plat principal_ that night.

We could have had it all.

But you played it, you played it, you played it to the beat.

* * *

><p><strong>"Rolling In The Deep" by Adele.<strong>

**THANK YOU EVERYONE FOR ALL YOUR AMAZING SUPPORT! 100 REVIEWS AND 10 000 READS, *MIND BLOWN***


	18. Agenda 3

**Previously...**

!

Eyes sparkling, the big guy behind the desk leant back in satisfaction, "Nikita. Pale Fire was to see if she could handle the pressure. We all know the one chink in her armour is that inconvenient little conscience of hers...well, if she can take out young Alexandra then I'm sure she's more than ready for any challenges awaiting her as my new right hand man."

Michael stared. "So that's why you took me off the Op."

"I always have my reasons, you know that," Percy soothed, "Now. I think you should head to Pennsylvania and start with Miss Dana Winters, seeing as you have such a knack for working with our female recruits."

!

Percy had overstepped himself with Oleander last year and Oversight had been waiting for a window for months. Amanda was that foot in the door, but alone, she was useless. She was incomparable at what she did but to take down the current dictatorship, they needed a fighter – a warrior. So in stepped Nikita, who, from the moment Amanda had seen her as a recruit, had been privately groomed to be the weapon that would topple Percy.

!

"It's time to let go of this pain," said Amanda.

Her student nodded slowly. "What do I have to do?"

A spreading smile, full of genuine emotion, came across Amanda's face. "Firstly, forget everything Michael ever told you. Your job isn't to work for Percy – it's to work for Division. Do you understand the difference?"

Nikita grinned, "The devil's in the details, right?"

!

Amanda could dedicate hours and hours to slowly brainwashing her but at the very bottom of her existence – Nikita still didn't consider Division as her saviour, or her home. She could have said 'Amanda', she could have said 'Division', she could even have said 'Michael'...but no, she had decided on 'Caroline'.

!

"An engineer?" Amanda frowned, "Of what?"

Percy pulled on his suit jacket and wiggled his eyebrows teasingly. "Little black boxes..."

When the boss had disappeared, Amanda looked back up to the screen. _Boxes...?_

!

I never think of the future,

It comes soon enough.

- Albert Einstein

DIVISION – 2200, 26/11/05

"Good job Winters," Michael thumped her on the back as she passed. Her signature half-grimace flashed in response and she trudged breathlessly to the locker rooms with aching limbs and a light feeling in her chest that she'd come to associate with a particularly good training session. Not that she had many unsatisfactory ones since Percy had introduced his 'miracle pills.'

At first, she'd been sceptical. They sounded like some online hoax for instant weight loss and with a mild history of party drugs, she'd been wary. But it wasn't like anyone ever said no to Percy.

And now, needing only 4hrs of sleep per day, she'd come to grow and love her physical body in a way that not many women did. It was gratifying, knowing that she could trust her legs to pump strong enough, trust her hand-eye coordination hold up and trust her reflexes to kick in. An added bonus of the Regiment was that her metabolism was so fast she could afford to indulge herself in rich foods every week – a liberty no normal agent could have. This pleasant development meant she'd signed up for a local cooking class. A novelty.

For Dana Winters, life was looking good. Even better? Michael had hinted that they were up for graduation sometime later that week. Having already done two prior extension courses, she'd never experienced anything as strenuous as this 'Specialist' training. Excited, a little anxious, but mostly with a kind of childlike curiosity, she wondered what Percy had planned. To know that she only had a few more turns of the sun to wait both infuriated and calmed her.

Whatever it was, it was bound to be big and bound to be dangerous. She was trying to decide whether she wanted to be fighting the terrorists or doing the terrorising...

BOSTON – 0900, 28/11/05

The Engineer sat gingerly on the edge of his chair and refused any food or drink. His beady, bespectacled eyes darted around the room, looking for what, he didn't know.

"I'm glad you could come on such short notice," Percy said in between gulps of cognac, "Want to get this all wrapped up before the New Year, you know."

The man with the hunched shoulders and bizarrely twisted sneer blinked back in rapidly succession, as if trying to clear his eyes to see his employer better. His hands subconsciously twisted themselves into a knot of fingers entwined with the rough material of his coat.

An unsteady nod sufficed as an answer.

"Good...good...Carpe Diem, you know."

The man jarred his neck and it gave a sickening snap. Percy eyed him with amusement, a twinkling sparkle of something sinister glowed underneath, and he touched his lips to the glass again. Designation Engineer peered back and seemed to shrink a little at that touch of malice in his superior's eyes. Of course, intellectually there could be no greater man than he, but the world didn't run on intellect – just look at the string of inadequate politicians – this earth spun on the axis of northern polar Power and Money in the south.

Even a man of Pascals and d-electrons knew that.

"A flashdrive? That's it?" Percy asked in bemusement as he withdrew the device.

"Put...your – _information_ – on this. And then. Upload. EncryptionOfTheCode...should be – auto...matic..." he said in jerks of sudden pace and volume. Percy turned the nondescript object over in his fingers. "And be sure to...wear the...adjusted. Pacemaker. The trigger..."

He grinned, "I'll have your commission wired to your account. If anything goes wrong, I'll be able to contact you as per usual I hope – "

The Engineer squeezed his eyes shut and furrowed his rounded forehead. He shook his head vigorously. "No! No mistake. _Nothing_...will go wrong. I...I..._assure_ you. Sir."

"'Sir', indeed. Of course, confidentiality is not something I need to remind you of."

Another nod of understanding.

Percy clapped his hands and downed the last of his drink. "Well then, good day!"

DIVISION – 1300, 29/11/05

"Hey," Winters called, feeling suddenly awkward. Steinbeck stopped in the hallway and pivoted back to her. She had her hand wrapped tightly around a small black box. "Just want to say...nice working with you."

The tall man with the rather piercing blue eyes nodded in return, "You too. Good luck."

Hyun Kim chuckled, "Not much of a talker since he started taking the happy pills..."

"You mean after _we_ started taking them," she corrected in a teacher-like way, "But it's not like any of us will be in contact with anyone much."

Kim looked down at his own box, "Funny isn't it. Months of training just for...this? Wonder what all the fuss is about. Safety deposit boxes...secure lines and 10 pages of protocol to read."

"So where are you off to?"

"Montreal. You?"

"Pennsylvania. Plainville," she scrunched at her nose, "Sounds like a happening place."

They laughed lightly. Little did they know, it would be a long time before either of them laughed again.

"And where's Steiny off to, then?"

"Airport from the sounds of it. Somewhere in the UK. London probably," she stared off where their comrade had disappeared, "I hear he's supposed to be living out of a shipping container."

"Classy..."

Winters sighed quietly, "Yeah..."

War is a game played with a smile.

If you can't smile, grin.

-Winston Churchill

WASHINGTON DC – 1700, 30/11/05

"Amanda," the Admiral greeted. "You wanted to see us?"

The usually composed woman seemed to be disturbed. She sat down at the table and drew the chair in with a loud screech on the titles – none of the usual womanly deportment she normally preached. The other six members around the large oval boardroom looked at each other in worry. This time the next day, they should have been introduced to the young and revolutionary 'Nikita' they'd heard so much about (and watched tapes of, and read after action reports on, and been monitoring...) The emergency meeting less than 24hrs before Judgement Day was unsettling.

And yet, none at that table could have guessed at why. Thus, each and every decorated member was leaning slightly forward in their seats with the unconscious eagerness of a group of teenage girls overdosing on the season's hottest gossip.

"The situation's changed," said Amanda shortly. She roughly removed her fashionable trench, avoiding eye-contact with Oversight.

"I thought you said your asset was ready," one of the men said with a patronising lilt.

If there was one thing she didn't like, it was to be patronised. "She's more than ready," Amanda countered aggressively, fixing the accusatory figure with a hard stare. "The fact is that regardless of how great Nikita's become...the plan is no longer possible."

"Is it this Michael fella again?"

"No. It's Percy."

A woman on the far end tittered, "You're not telling us you've become sympathetic to his cause?"

"On the contrary, Dr Marisco, I believe that this time he's really overstepped himself."

"More so than doing mercenary jobs for international criminals? That's a big call," said the Admiral.

"There are three highly trained agents called Guardians, whose locations are unknown. Their job is to protect an advanced piece of technology known as a 'Black Box', designed by a Swedish-born man named Johaan Hasse. Each box contains full documentation of every single Operation Division has ever done, uploaded via an encrypted USB with a code that can be broken by less than a half a dozen people on this earth. This box not only contains details of the mission, who executed attacks and other tactile reports – it also identifies the people, or organisation, who ordered the paramilitary action. Which basically means that if that information is released, not only will there be civil uprising, but all your personal careers and perhaps your lives, will be destroyed."

"What does Percy plan to do with these so-called boxes?" an unbelieving Senator asked.

"Mmm nothing...," she said, "Yet."

"Yet?"

"The rather _volatile_ material on these boxes can be released at any time on his word," Amanda mused. The table muttered to each other.

"Then let's move up the schedule!" the patroniser commanded, "Stop him before he can give those orders."

She grinned, almost sadistically, "There is a second way the contents can go public. An automatic trigger rests inside his body, aligned to his heartbeat. The moment that organ stops working, then, too, the boxes will upload."

"You mean he can't be killed?" they asked aghast.

"Don't be silly," she scoffed, "Of course he can be killed. It would just be unwise for your cause to do so. Which leads me back to my original statement – _the plan is no longer possible_."

The Joint Intelligence Officer scowled, "I don't like your tone, Amanda."

"If you don't believe me then by all means go ahead."

"What exactly is on these..._boxes_?" the Senator asked slowly.

"Everything."

"Define 'everything'..."

"The truth about the Roswell Incident, JFK's assassination, military bases in Jordan, Operation Pine Gap, the Axis of Evil investigation, Oliver North, the entire Stalin campaign...I could go on but I'm afraid the Admiral's about to go into cardiac arrest," Amanda finished sarcastically.

"By God!" cried Mr Joint Intelligence. "The man's untouchable!"

"That's the general idea..."

He looked around at the other horrified and anxious faces, "So what do we do?"

"What _can_ we do?" exclaimed Dr Marisco. "It's like that children's book – he's made his horcruxes."

The sixth man, who had not yet spoken through the course of the conference, gave a small cough. All eyes turned to him. His regal bearing, dark eyes behind wired-rimmed perfectly round glasses and chocolate skin made him a formidable figure. Even in his obvious age, there was clarity and power in that gaze. He turned it on Amanda. And he was a match.

"Nikita doesn't know about our arrangement. Is she aware of the black boxes?"

"Not that I know of."

"Good. We leave it that way," he stated. No other member disputed the man. "As for Percy, there will come a time when he is vulnerable. He may have the upper hand now, but let us comfort ourselves in knowing that his Second-In-Command is an agent with a conscience as deadly as her skill. All great dictators fall to their people. Perhaps Providence is telling us that now is not the time to act. Perhaps this Nikita, is not yet ready."

The Senator nodded, "I agree. We stay put and lure him into a false sense of security."

Joint Intelligence shook his head, "And then? Until we remove those boxes, we can't get to him!"

"Then we will _find_ a way to destroy them," the Admiral said firmly.

The sixth man touched the tips of his fingers together and closed his eyes. Softly he murmured, "All great dictators fall to their people..."

"So we do nothing?"

"Nothing," Amanda agreed.

The Senator sat back and sighed deeply, "For now."

No coach has ever won a game by what he knows.

It's what his player's know that counts.

-Paul Bryant

DIVISION – 01/12/05

"Amanda," Nikita nodded. She noticed a small, grey carry bag in the corner of the normally spotlessly minimalistic room. Amanda herself seemed less crisp than usual. Of course, still about ten thousand times more sleek than the average Joe, but not at her normal standard. "Have you been travelling?"

Her teacher appraised her and then smiled, "You never miss a detail."

"I won three awards for my Tracking and Surveillance, remember?"

"Don't let that get to your head. You'll start to sound like Birkhoff," Amanda dropped herself into her chair, "Who by the way, has a list of possible new recruits. I want you to pick out two or three with the most potential and run case profiles on them."

She wrinkled her brow in deep thought, "What qualities do you look for...should I look for?"

"Well, all of them have committed some heinous crime, usually in a creative way, something that captures our attention from the hundreds of other young people who file through our legal system," Amanda explained, "Birkhoff's narrowed down a key dozen who have minimal paper trails and your job is to do the physical scouting."

"Physical?"

"Look for a relatively fit person with a large dosing of what I like to call the 'human spirit'. You can see it in their eyes, a suppressed rage, anger or injustice. Often they'll fight the guards or cause trouble with other prisoners. Not necessarily a white American but no accents and no obvious physical deformities or scars on the face and neck. Our recruits must be able to blend into civilian life and most of the people you'll be visiting have just come from the fringes of society, so they may look ragged," Amanda continued to reel off.

Nikita nodded, thinking about just how little she was looking forward to going back to the Death Ward again. It was a sterile place made for people on the death penalty, where two types of prisoners strive – the depressive suicidal and the psychotic sociopaths grasping at one last chance to raise some Hell on earth before been punished with the actual kind.

"Still, the particulars you can run over with Michael, so I'm sure you'll choose well."

Her head snapped up of its own accord. Her eyebrows raised in surprise.

Amanda smiled in that signature smug fashion of hers, "I thought I'd surprise you. Early Christmas?"

She rolled her eyes, "He's not busy training those agents anymore?"

"They graduated," was the curt reply. But the sharpness was gone by the time Nikita noticed it.

"Oh."

"Oh," Amanda mimicked, "It's okay to be happy Nikita, I think it's due time for you two to reconnect."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

WASHINGTON DC – 02/12/05

The man put down the phone and stared at an enlarged photograph on his laptop. It was of one of those black boxes. He adjusted his round glasses with a sigh. Years of preparation wasted because of this untimely news. If they had known about it, then Oversight would have brought forward the dates and eliminated Percy before he'd put this annoying little insurance policy into plan. But alas, as he'd mentioned at the conference, Providence had a way...

All Amanda's hard work had to be undone. What was the point in having an efficient killer at Percy's side? Now, it would only aid him – perhaps make him confident enough to attempt greater Operations knowing he had the lethal skill of Nikita sans-conscience. No...no...that wouldn't do. Nikita needed to be re-moulded.

Again.

They needed to bring back her inner compassion and...gentility. All those feelings they'd ordered Amanda to crush in favour of cold calculation and detachment. As with any species in the natural world, adaptation to ones surroundings was essential for survival. New plans had been made. Plans involving a sweeter girl, with charismatic ability to draw in strangers and build a cover so strong that no one could see through it. Who Percy would see as an agent suitable for an undercover Op, with enough expertise and mental stamina to stay at her prime even through prolonged periods of inactivity.

Who Percy might, one day, see as a suitable person to entrust with a box.

And then Oversight would strike. With the prized possession, a world of their own technical experts to help override the encryption and perhaps spread a virus through the whole system, with luck (lots of it) they might just be able to finish what they'd started.

Might.

Beware the fury of a patient man.

-John Dryden

DIVISION – 05/12/05

"Ari Tarsarov, a highly ranked member of the Russian mercenary group 'Gogol'. He'll be alert, is highly dangerous and likes to play with his food – so please, for you own sake, avoid being caught," Percy spoke at a large picture of a hawklike man smiling out of the flat screened LCD. "Amanda'll go through the particulars with you."

Nikita nodded, still staring at her new adversary. His greying hair combined with a thin sneer and cruel eyes gave her the distinct impression that he would be a cockroach to kill. Exuding an air of military hardiness, she could already foresee the troubles he might give her. She subconsciously touched a hand to the gun tucked into the back of her jeans.

Percy watched her carefully as he said his next line, "In my mind, a lone sniper attack or an infiltration and some arsenic in a carelessly placed glass of water would suffice but Amanda seemed to think that it was two-man Op."

"Sir?"

"You'll be working with Michael."

Nikita kept her eyes drilled into Tarsarov's and gave no indication that the news affected her.

"I think next February that'll be exactly 12 months since your last mission together. Promise me you'll be as good as before this little sabbatical."

She nodded, "Yes sir."

"Amanda seems excited about this," Percy commented, "Well, excited might be stretching it a little bit..."

Trying not to seem too curious, she only tipped her head in acknowledgement. The boss scrutinized her expression with an amused smile. Just beneath the surface of her calm, a cocktail of poisonous emotions were brewing. Confusion was most obvious – she remembered Amanda's strict warnings about trusting Michael and now her unusual change of heart. But there was fear too, something nervous that she didn't like. Why should she be afraid of Michael? It wasn't like it was the first time she'd worked with him since Pale Fire. Just last week, they'd scouted out the new recruits together – she shouldn't feel uncertain.

But why did Amanda want to throw her back to the wolves? To test her? Tempt her?

A knock on the heavy doors of the office was followed by Percy's quick, "Come in. Just in time Michael."

Despite all of Nikita's steely self-control, when she finally saw him – knowing that they would be prepping together, training together and working together again – involuntary tears sprung to her eyes. She had missed him. She missed his scruffy voice, she missed his skilful, powerful hands as they guided her through a new move, she missed hearing his step in the corridor, she missed teasing him about his stuffy fashion sense, she missed the way his eyebrows would hood over whenever something came up about Kasim, she missed his reluctant smiles, she missed their heated arguments, she missed the feel of his arms around her, she missed the dangerous glints that flickered in his eyes.

She missed him so much it hurt.

But what hurt the most was not realising until then.

Michael nodded, "Nikita."

Nikita swallowed, "Michael."

Percy crossed his arms and grimaced, "Percy!"

Love is the silent saying and saying,

Of a single name.

- Mignon McLaughlin (The Neurotic's Notebook)

* * *

><p><strong>ARGH! So sorry for the lateness. I had this chap 90% complete four days ago and suddenly got bogged down in work. Am going to be stumbling through the fog for the next month or so and thank you if you're still following this story! I was so tempted to call this "Game Changer" but...you know, it's the name of episode 1 of season 2 so I didn't :( But still, Mikita is back! *tears*<strong>


	19. Changes: Defying Gravity

**If you're still following this story, a thousand thanks! Sorry it's been so long – here are 2 chapters in 1. Just skip the Previously... section if you still remember what's happened so far :)**

* * *

><p><strong>Previously...<strong>

Michael slowly rose to his feet, "I can't help getting the feeling you're up to something. The secret training, the journal, the phone on silent...and the case full of SIG-Sauer's, Heckler's, Beretta's and a Remington 700 PSS sniper rifle?"

!

At Division, there are many ways to send a message. One could choose to attack an agent in hopes of conveying a warning. Or one could merely say a few choice words into the receiver of a phone. Either way, that chosen message would be heard loud and clear: You are our creature.

!

"I was moved from place to place after my real parents died. So when I finally came across Caroline, my last foster mum, well...let's just say that I was pretty rough. I was probably the toughest eight year old you'd ever find," she said quietly. "But she cleaned me up. Sent me off to school and cared for me. Not like the other mothers, she didn't do it for the government pay out. She loved me. In her own way."

!

"Look," Michael grunted, pinching the bridge of his nose with a pained expression, "Amanda's right. Let's just forget tonight ever happened. It's not like we learnt anything new."

"Except that Amanda's a double, double agent," added the tech guru.

"And that Percy's working with the Triads," said Nikita.

"Oh, and that everyone knows about you two. It's so obvious they're even using your weird relationship to complete Ops, now."

!

"I'm sorry," he said with a mocking lilt, "I thought you were Nikita the Righteous. Now you _want_ to kill people?"

She made a face at his teasing, "If the alternative is Percy taking the names and making some back alley deal with them in return for playing ground and cash...well then I'm not sure eliminating them altogether would be the smarter way to go."

!

After every mission, she would be angry. Regardless of whether or not it was elimination or counter-intel. She seemed to hate it all and he had no idea where the sudden change had come from. She was even more aggressive than before she'd been activated to Code Red. Every time they spoke, she would either be jumping at his throat or subdued and sarcastic. He couldn't get her to break a smile.

!

"So what was that? In Italy, was that just 'nothing'?"

"Yes," he found himself saying.

"I was just your cover for the week..."

"Yes."

"Do you believe that?"

Michael found his throat had constricted. "Yes."

She stepped in front of him, hands on hips, "Then why are you here?"

!

She gave an astonished laugh, "We've been working on intel for five months and you're just going to bail?"

"Percy," he emphasised the name, "has ordered me to stay here."

"Of his own accord or by your suggestion?"

Michael blinked, "What's the difference, either way I'm out."

"It makes all the difference in the world."

!

"You're safe with him, I promise," she said, lying the girl gently in the back of the car.

"_You're worth both of them,"_ Michael's voice echoed in her head.

But he was wrong. Because being worth two men would imply that she was human. And whatever she was, whatever she had become, whatever Division had moulded her to be – it was not that. It was not human.

!

He glowered, "I didn't ask you to kill an innocent girl."

"Well then Percy did," Nikita cried, "And I thought you never asked questions."

He slammed a fisted hand against the wall, "Percy has his reasons."

"Are you trying to convince me or yourself...?"

"She was not a danger to our country. You should have – "

"What?" anger getting the better of her, "I should have _what_, Michael?"

!

Realising, with all the enthusiasm of a dousing of cold water, that he was the same as ever – the same, immoveable figure of soldierly obedience was the only thing worse than thinking things would change. It was knowing that _nothing_ had. And she accepted the sinking feeling that nothing ever would.

That was what shattered her.

It hurt, knowing that if she wanted to change things she was going to have to do it alone. If she wanted to run, she would have to run alone. If she wanted to fight against Division, she would have to fight alone. It hurt. It all hurt.

!

Michael nodded slowly, scanning down the short list of the names, "Ready for what? Who's Eliot?"

"A Cleaner, about to learn a particular branch of his trade. He and two other lucky fellows will replace your new students once they're ready. All I need is for you to promise me that you will keep these actions under wraps," Percy peered at his man's face.

"Of course, sir," he replied, "But if I'm inactive, then who'll replace _me_?"

Eyes sparkling, the big guy behind the desk leant back in satisfaction, "Nikita."

!

Double Helix involved more scientific espionage than protecting the nation. Another hired job. Only this time it seemed Nikita hadn't disapproved, there was only his own conscience tugging at him. _She_ had executed the plan spotlessly and without a single peep of discomfort. He wondered why that was causing _him_ some unease.

!

"Just hear me out," he held out a hand. She simmered in barely concealed fury again. "Until you stop working for us – you're never going to say 'no'."

!

Without thinking, Michael said the first thing that jumped to mind. "Nikita! You have no mother! She died, then the only foster mum who ever cared about you died as well. _We_ built you up again. The least you could do to thank us is to at least have a bit of faith."

She looked like she had been punched in the gut. A huge wall of guilt quickly settled in and his spurt of anger deflated with all the anti-climax of an un-popped balloon.

"Niki – "

"Don't."

!

Amanda leant forward intently, "There has only been one person you've ever trusted and that's Michael. But now you feel that connection is waning and you only ever talk to argue. That must be painful."

She gritted her teeth without realising it. "Maybe I like my pain."

Amanda reached forward and rested a manicured hand on her knee, "You don't have to suffer alone. I'm here to help. We can use that feeling to make you into a better agent...a better person. You're a good soldier, very naturally gifted, but you could be great. You could be the best. And I want to make sure you reach your potential – it would be such a shame if you didn't."

!

Percy had overstepped himself with Oleander last year and Oversight had been waiting for a window for months. Amanda was that foot in the door, but alone, she was useless. She was incomparable at what she did but to take down the current dictatorship, they needed a fighter – a warrior. So in stepped Nikita, who, from the moment Amanda had seen her as a recruit, had been privately groomed to be the weapon that would topple Percy. Her combative skills, her mental steel and her perpetual questioning of her boss made her perfect. She had the physical ability to beat him to the ground. She had the mental ability to earn his trust. Most importantly, she had the desire to change things.

!

She looked up. "You think I'm not capable of turning on the heat?"

Michael's eyebrows rose dramatically. The very real anger in her voice surprised him. "I just thought..."

"When are you going to understand that I can look after myself? The man was a drug dealer and a smuggler. It was necessary," she said with an edge.

"You've changed your tune," he commented wryly.

!

Hyun Kim chuckled, "Not much of a talker since he started taking the happy pills..."

"You mean after _we_ started taking them," Dana Winters corrected in a teacher-like way, "But it's not like any of us will be in contact with anyone much."

Kim looked down at his own box, "Funny isn't it. Months of training just for...this? Wonder what all the fuss is about. Safety deposit boxes...secure lines and 10 pages of protocol to read."

"So where are you off to?"

"Montreal. You?"

"Pennsylvania. Plainville," she scrunched up her nose, "Sounds like a happening place."

!

"What exactly is on these..._boxes_?" the Senator asked slowly.

"Everything."

"Define 'everything'..."

"The truth about the Roswell Incident, JFK's assassination, military bases in Jordan, Operation Pine Gap, the Axis of Evil investigation, Oliver North, the entire Stalin campaign...I could go on but I'm afraid the Admiral's about to go into cardiac arrest," Amanda finished sarcastically.

"By God!" cried Mr Joint Intelligence. "The man's untouchable!"

!

They needed to bring back her inner compassion and...gentility. All those feelings they'd ordered Amanda to crush in favour of cold calculation and detachment. As with any species in the natural world, adaptation to ones surroundings was essential for survival. New plans had been made. Plans involving a sweeter girl, with charismatic ability to draw in strangers and build a cover so strong that no one could see through it. Who Percy would see as an agent suitable for an undercover Op, with enough expertise and mental stamina to stay at her prime even through prolonged periods of inactivity.

Who Percy might, one day, see as a suitable person to entrust with a box.

!

Percy watched her carefully as he said his next line, "Ari Tarsarov, a highly ranked member of the Russian mercenary group 'Gogol'. In my mind, a lone sniper attack or an infiltration and some arsenic in a carelessly placed glass of water would suffice but Amanda seemed to think that it was two-man Op."

"Sir?"

"You'll be working with Michael."

Nikita kept her eyes drilled into Tarsarov's and gave no indication that the news affected her.

All changes, even the most longed for,

Have their melancholy;

For what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves;

We must die to one life,

Before we can enter another. ~Anatole France

"Hot towel, ma'am?"

With a polite shake of her head, she leant back into the roomy seat and put on her complimentary headphones. Resisting the intense urge to glance sideways at the stoic man to the left, she concentrated on deciding between George Clooney and Russell Crowe. _I wonder if this is what it feels like to choose a recruit from a catalogue, _was the more than usually bitter thought that dashed across her mind.

Nikita tried to forget her first recruitment ordeal. And yes, it was an ordeal. Having to trawl through the shattered histories of two dozen broken and beaten men and women – most barely out of their teens – and literally decide which got another chance at life with the tick of a red pen was too closing playing God for her liking.

She shuddered.

"_Michael," she gasped, "What are you wearing?"_

_He grinned, "You don't like it?"_

"_I...just never figured you to be the ironic t-shirt kind of guy."_

"_I'm experimenting," he stated, then quickly hid his smile and passed her a manila folder of sheets, "Here. This was always my favourite part of the job."_

_Nikita frowned, rifling through the documents, "Really?"_

"_I found a...sense of right in giving troubled souls a new start," he explained with hands deep in pockets. "You get to watch them grow. It's very...gratifying."_

_Eyes lingering on a random sheet of paper, Nikita spaced for a moment, imagining she heard a double meaning in his words – something to do with _her_ as a recruit and _him_ as a teacher. Gratifying? Shaking herself to reality, she noticed with a lurch that she was reading the death sentence of a Nathalie Meil. Licking suddenly parched lips, she avoided his eyes and asked the question that had been bothering her ever since she'd heard about the assignment._

"_How do you choose which life is more important than the others?"_

_Michael shook his head in confusion, "Come again?"_

"_What do you use to decide whether or not one person deserves to live?"_

"_Well, physical characteristics are the easiest to spot. Someone attractive, toned, with no particularly outstanding tattoos or piercings – "_

"_That's not what I mean."_

"_Then what?"_

"_You know what," she spoke into the ground through gritted teeth._

_Michael chose to misunderstand, "And I'll show you tomorrow. If we get to the compound before breakfast we can usually catch them at their most vulnerable, right after they've woken up and before they've eaten. I've found it's the best time to observe. And we might be able to see some outside in the physical recreation box before lunch."_

_Nikita had a vivid memory of a tiny caged area with a single barbell and a medicine ball. Unlike other prisoner's, those doomed to die were only allowed a half hour stay in the recreational area. It couldn't be considered 'outside' since the wire fencing around the box didn't exactly promote the feeling of freedom and it could hardly be called 'recreational' since prisoner's were only ever allowed out one at a time. They feared that if they let several at once, they'd smash each other's skulls in with the equipment._

_Michael's words made it seem like he was talking about going to the local animal sales to look at the season's best calves and bid for a young bull. Like they were animals to be weighed, judged and handpicked for the slaughterhouse._

_It made her sick._

Two beeps from her partner's phone brought her back to her senses. The airhostess looked sidelong at them, probably wondering whether she should ask business class passengers to turn off their electronic devices. Still staring at them uneasily as she passed on, Nikita felt Michael curse under his breath.

"What happened?"

He rammed the phone back into his pocket with undue aggression, "We have a situation."

I'm through accepting limits,

Cause someone says they're so.

"Yes sir," Michael replied in the affirmative as soon as they were in the airport. Nikita was several strides ahead, walking purposefully towards the baggage carousel with ears pricked. "Understood. I'll handle it."

At the snap of the phone being flipped shut, she turned around and silently questioned him with an eyebrow. Michael didn't reply, heaved a trunk and marched forward with a scowl. She halted for a minute in slight indignation and then muttered, "Fine. Don't tell me."

Pretending not to hear, he fumbled for his fake passport and wondered how he would break the news to her.

"_Higgins, Leslie," she read out across the plastic fold-out table. A courtesy cup of cold tea had been provided by the prison warden and was the only object that adorned the bare room. "She looks good."_

_Michael shook his head, flipping through her file._

"_Why not? She's fits the criteria."_

"_Higgins is from a big Irish Catholic family. It's too likely that once she's an agent, someone from her old life will recognise her," he stated, "Too much of a risk."_

"_Three of her brothers and her parents died in a house fire. Her youngest brother never got over the loss, was hospitalized twice for attempted suicide and is now in a rehab clinic. Her sister's been sent to live with relatives back in Ireland and both sets of grandparents died within the last three years. Who could possibly recognise her?" Nikita argued._

"_Friends of the family. Cousins. Locals. People remember faces that have been on the news."_

_She stared down at the picture of a pretty, though pale, and ghostly grey girl in her early twenties. "Why can't we just make sure she never goes back to Charleston?"_

_Michael looked up warily. Nikita had been pleading the case for every inmate they'd come across – as if they'd all make brilliant Division operatives when he knew that _she _knew only one in a million had the goods. For someone who had become as efficient and detached as he was, the unusual change made him uneasy. He knew that Amanda had been working on her for months now. He had reluctantly seen those changes from afar. Once upon a time, the idea that Nikita feeling justified about her work was an impossibility that he could only dream about. Then suddenly, she was at Percy's right hand, never asking questions, walking around with a self-satisfied glint in her eyes and a stiffness he didn't quite like. But now, without so much as a week of transition, she was back. The recruit with the overly large conscience. He couldn't think of any reason for why Amanda would allow such a relapse. The silence of his instincts frightened him._

"_Higgins won't do. Let's look at the next one...a Mr Sullivan Foster."_

Michael passed the passport through the glass hole of Customs and sighed. Targeting Gogol's man was always a going to be a touch and go Op. Anything could happen when one large organisation went up against another – as if France's Direction Centrale Police Judiciaire crossed the FBI. But now...well...

Some things I cannot change,

But 'till I try, I'll never know.

MONTREAL – 1505, 01/02/06 (week before)

Kim huddled into the collar of his jacket, still unused to the biting winds. Forecasts showed that this was the last cold front for awhile so he could expect some reprieve in the days to come. Still, he didn't think he'd ever come to love the cold as much as he did the searing heat of the south. At the time, the suffocating humidity made him want to tear his hair out but after years stuck underground at Division and now banished to what he considered the Arctic, those days were dearly missed.

The door of the cafe opened with a jingle, its heated interior was a comforting blanket that wrapped around him and immediately started to thaw his fingers. Catching the eye of a girl in the corner, he headed over, an involuntary smile spreading over his cold-chaffed face.

"Hey," shrugging off the jacket and alerting a waitress, "Sorry I kept you waiting. Got...caught up."

The girl swept a strand of hair out of her face and nodded silently.

"What's wrong?" he said, reaching for her hand. She shrank away at his touch and stared at the ground. "Lydia, _what's wrong_?"

"I got a text," she said in a small voice. He narrowed his eyes in confusion. "From who?"

"From _you_."

"Me...how?"

"It said that...Hyun...what's your job?"

"Come again?"

Biting her lip, she repeated her question, this time with a harder edge, "What do you do for a living?"

Hyun Kim hesitated, suddenly uneasy at telling the lie he'd been spilling for months, "I'm a landscaper. Work's hard to get in the winter...Lyd, if this is about money, you know I can – "

"It's not about _money_," she closed her eyes. Then taking out her phone, she passed it to him. "This is a text you sent. This morning at 4am. I don't think it was meant for me."

Heart sinking, Kim read the short, familiar words. The numbers for 'Lydia' and 'Landscaping and Gardening Guild' were next to each other. He mentally punched himself. She looked up, "Protocol? Uploading some XS encryption file? What does that even mean!" Eyes pleading him to tell her it was a mistake, that it was a malfunction from the phone company, or that it was a hoax, or spam, she grasped her coffee mug tightly. But Kim's face remained impassive, and from his silence, she knew that the terrible fear that had been building inside her was real.

"Lydia..."

"Please, just tell me what's going on."

"You won't understand."

"I'll try."

He grimaced, "You won't."

"I'll _try_," she repeated, carefully taking her phone back and fumbling with it under the table. "I'll listen. I don't care if it's...it's...just, please, give me a chance."

Kim looked up and thought of the black box nestled safely in the bank. It felt so far away and the woman in front of him was so close. She was in earnest, he could feel it. Suddenly his heart jumped and with a great relief, he truly believed that once he was honest, they could start a life together. Division never had to know. He'd keep the relationship under wraps. He'd protect her. She was a freelance journalist, so if he ever suspected she was in danger, he could send her off to some country miles and miles away – get her out of range while he dealt with it. Then, once the storm passed, she'd sneak back under the radar.

"Okay," he breathed, "But hear me out first..."

Lydia looked up eagerly, he'd explain that he worked for the FBI, or that he was developing a program for a IT company, anything other than...than...

"I'm a part of a secret Black Ops organisation called Division."

Her heart dropped. Her instincts were right. This man was too good to be true. There was always a catch, and here it was. With tears welling up in her eyes, she felt for her phone and silently started to record the conversation.

Something has changed within me,

Something is not the same.

I'm through with playing by the rules of someone else's game.

"What happened this morning?" she asked carefully.

Kim shrugged, "Another upload. I get a batch of information every week on a USB. This morning was just like any other Wednesday."

"What are the files about?"

He shrugged again, taking it as a positive sign that she was curious, not fearful or disgusted. "It's against regulations to look in it."

"And you've never wanted to?"

"No," he replied slowly, "It's encrypted, anyhow."

"But you said that at this school, they teach you how to work with computers and stuff. So couldn't you decode it?" she pressed. Part of her was barely able to contain the scream in her throat. But the other part knew that this was ground breaking news, career-making. She didn't want to hurt him, she truly cared for him – but if he was some...assassin...

"Yeah I could," he chuckled, "If I had a thousand years to spare and millions of dollars worth of equipment. Why do you want me to hack it? You think it could be important information...?"

"Must be. If this Percy man told you to do all that training you can't just be guarding pay cheques and admin, right?"

"Right...If you really want me to, I could...try and take a crack at it. I'm not promising anything though. Why don't you come by my place tonight, we'll have dinner and then..." he gave a lopsided grin. Lydia stared out the window for several moments before nodding. "Alright, I'll see you at seven."

You won't be the first journalist,

I've seen them kill. –Maggie Q (as Nikita to Jill Morelli)

Michael was staring at a very angry Nikita. That sight wasn't unnerving in itself, he'd lost count of the number of times she'd fired up at him, but it was the distinct lack of clothing that was making it hard for him to retaliate with the necessary amount of logical reasoning.

"Some Canadian journo found out about this Op and decided that she was capable of stopping us. Alone. And Percy's asked you to take her out?"

"That about sums it up."

"Well, she obviously doesn't know who she's up against, meaning that she obviously doesn't know that much about us. So she _obviously _doesn't deserve to die! I'm sure if we just explained to her that it was some elaborate...Russian...reality TV show, she'd believe us. Then she'd just go back home and blog about how Russians have strange taste in television."

"Funny," he quipped, mildly regretting telling Nikita just as she'd come out of the shower. Then again, he also congratulated himself for choosing one of the only times she wouldn't launch herself on him in a barrage of fists.

"_Alright, so we'll go look at Foster, O'loan and Kentucky," Michael concluded, pushing aside the rest of the files and taking the slip of paper with their cell number and name. Nikita stood up silently, lost in her own head of muddled thoughts. So this was how they chose new recruits, by looking at the facts and figures in their life. What if they'd passed on someone who would've made a great agent but simply looked unpromising on paper? It was like sentencing them all to death all over again._

"_This here's Foster," a gruff security pointed around a mouthful of gum._

_Through the bars they saw a bulk of human arms and legs sitting huddled in the corner. A mop of unkempt brown hair appeared over his knees, underneath which two bold eyes stared unblinking at his new visitors. Nikita found she couldn't quite hold the creature's glare. There was something too eerily familiar about the knees-to-chest pose that filled her with strange shame. She still remembered the days when she'd struggled to hold herself together, clutching herself in a vain attempt to keep all the angry, confused thoughts under wraps – so afraid that she'd go mad listening to her own voice. Never completely weaned off the Ketamine, hots flushes of uncontrollable need would drive through her in aggressive pumps leaving her weak and dry heaving once the desire trickled away._

_Michael leant towards her and muttered something about needing a better look. She nodded at the ground. A memory of days and nights, drifting into one strange blur, food and water acting as a short break in the monotony. The perpetual cold that never seemed to go away. It chilled more than flesh and bones; it chilled her heart to a numb indifference. Life was over. Caroline, the only person she'd ever loved, was long gone. Everyone else had used and abused her until she'd been forced to find solace in the drugged stupor that made her do horrible things. Things she never remembered once she woke up._

"_Nikita?" said Michael._

"_What was that, sorry?" she murmured, returning to him in a daze._

"_I said, let's see the next one."_

"_You mean, you don't want him?"_

"_Too passive."_

_She remained rooted to the ground. Nikita had been just like Sullivan Foster. Almost always curled up in a ball and yet Michael had come along and saved her. Why? She could barely remember the day he'd showed up. She'd been led to the Rec area when a sudden burst of that need had punched her in the gut. The craze lasted for all of two seconds, but enough for her to smash her guard's head into the wall and bolt, screaming out into the sweet, fresh air. That was, until a whole barrage of men pinned her, thrashing, to the ground. But what if...what if the addiction hadn't hit that day. What if it was just another time when she'd been 'passive' in the corner? She'd be dead. Division would have lost a valuable asset. What if..._

_And here was someone who reminded her so much of herself. Someone they weren't even giving a chance._

"_I think we should take him."_

_Michael doubled back to where she was standing and looked at her in confusion, "Why?"_

"_Because..."_

"_Because? That's it?" a teasing smile flickered across his disbelieving face. It angered her. She launched._

_The next thing she knew Michael had her arm twisted behind her back and her face up against the wall. "What are you playing at?" he hissed, grip tightening around her wrist. Like that poisonous need all those years ago, her rage filtered away, leaving her head aching and eyes stinking. He relaxed his hold and she shrugged him off, walking down the corridor towards the O'loan's cell, thinking 'there but God's grace go I'._

"Look, I'll ambush Lydia Garcia at the stadium, take her in and work out how she found out about our Op. You take down Tarsarov from above as planned. Percy's sent a team that'll meet us the day after so if there's trouble, they'll be able to bail us out."

"Are you going to kill her after she gives up her source?"

Michael stayed silent.

"Right."

He watched her walk back into the bathroom. "Right..."

Basketball doesn't build character,

It reveals it. - Author Unknown

KAYSERI STADIUM, ANKARA – 1900, 07/02/06

The basketball match raved below. Coloured figures darted across the wooden floor with the squeak of sneakers against a backdrop of grunts, whistles and yelling. Half the time, the crowd cheered in some crazed festival spirit, bellowing and screaming out the names of their favourite players. The other half of the time, the 7 500 strong arena simultaneously held its breath – spreading the nervous tension that could be felt even high up in the catwalks.

Whenever one of those eerily silent moments occurred, Nikita instinctively looked down. A part of her expected to see thousands of pairs of eyes staring upwards. She felt that every creak or groan of the metal boardwalk would give her away. Irrational as it was, she hadn't felt so insecure on a mission since her provisional days.

So why now?

Shrugging those paranoid thoughts away, she continued on her shaky path to the vantage point. Not that the contraption was shaky...more her knees.

The catwalks were a criss-crossing set of crude iron sheets with insufficient half-metre high bars protecting a person from a death-plunge down onto the merciless stadium floor. Usually accessed by technicians to adjust the lights and the cameras that televised high-profile matches on pay TV, their dark colour and the glare of artificial rays meant that any spectator would look up and see nothing but a vague outline of a roof somewhere high up. This effect should have calmed her nerves but then again, she was fighting Gogol. Perhaps they already knew of the attack and Tarsarov had men positioned to take her down.

"Michael, update," she whispered into her Comm, glancing around.

"_Target acquired, waiting until half time for the grab."_

"Copy that."

The giant scoreboard and timer showed that she had another three minutes. As long as her shot was true, she should be out of the stadium before the third quarter even started. Taking aim, carefully lining up the scope, she honed in on the section where Tarsarov would be seated. The crowds were like pieces of glitter flashing in the sunlight, the colours and movement disorientating her. Then something caught her eye, someone running down one of the aisles. She followed the woman only to see another figure running several feet behind her.

It was Michael.

"What are you doing?" she spoke into her receiver.

"_Target on the move. Heading towards Tarsarov. Eliminate him now."_

Spotting the sharp cut lineaments of her target's face, she adjusted the weapon and flicked off the safety. Then breathing slowly, she focused, knowing that there wasn't any room for mistake.

Too late for second guessing,

Too late to go back to sleep.

It's time to trust my instincts,

Close my eyes; and leap...

Michael cursed. With an extraction team still a day away, the easy option of shooting her was out of the question. She was running towards Tarsarov, probably to warn him of his impending death. Stupid girl, didn't she know that he was a part of a mercenary group who tortured and purged like modern day pirates, dealing drugs, weapons and assassinating? What did she think the world would gain by his continuing to live?

Damn, Garcia would be on him within the minute.

Speeding up, the crowd suddenly jumped to its feet. All around him, masses of bodies cheered and screamed as something happened in the last few seconds of the first half. The target disappeared out of sight and he pushed his way blindly through the rows and over the seats, down towards the middle of the stadium. Breaking out into a clear aisle, he spotted her, and Tarsarov too, sitting calmly in his courtside spot. She seemed to be yelling his name, unable to reach his prime spot without stepping on people's heads.

Air Tarsarov looked around for the voice. Michael slammed on the brakes. He grabbed the vendor next to him and shoved him down the stairs. The gobsmacked man and his hotdogs plummeted downwards, ricocheted off one of the railings and smashed into the back of Lydia Garcia. She fell headlong into the courtside section and the vendor landed splayed on his back, dazedly staring up at the lights. In the commotion, Michael rushed forward, saw an arm and yanked at it. The rest of his target's body was pulled along and he bundled her away.

The pair were gone by the time security reached the area. Horn blaring for half time, the crowds sat down, most completely unaware of the accident. Tarsarov dusted himself off, a woman had fallen on him, probably intoxicated and overly excited that Anadolu Efes had finally drawn even with CSKA Moscow.

"Papa! Они могли бы выиграть!"

He smiled at his son and settled back into his seat.

High above him, Nikita was running across the metal boardwalks with her heart in her throat.

Scrambling down the twisting staircase towards the ground, Nikita wondered just how much trouble she'd be in. She could have taken him down. She'd had him. But then the crowd had gone wild, everyone had stood up and she'd spotted a boy. Jumping up and down in excitement and yelling out, clapping his small hands together. Tarsarov had beamed, resting a hand on the boy's shoulder to try and contain his son's joy.

And she couldn't do it.

She just couldn't pull that trigger.

It was Michael, she was sure. He did this to her. When he had been off training agents, she'd never hesitated, she'd never considered those consequences. But now that he was back...

And so she'd failed her first mission.

Why didn't you take the shot?

Because your eight year old son,

Was sitting next to you. – Ari Tarsarov and Nikita

NEW YORK – 0800, 17/05/06

Nikita wandered into a small and messy shop in a lane just off from a main road. She was dressed like a civilian; a long trench coat, jeans and a woollen scarf to protect her from the last of autumn drizzle. The only difference was that civilians didn't have a knife disguised as a decorative belt clasp, a small explosive cigarette or a shotgun in the inner pocket of their coats.

"I want a consultation," she said across the grimy counter. The man snorted disbelieving.

"A consultation? What's that?" he asked in a voice that bore the scars from a lifetime of smoking. A huge green and grey dragon ran down his forearm. She guessed he probably kept a pistol hidden just behind his chair.

"This place," she said, looking around, "Attracts some seedy characters, I suppose?"

The man surveyed her suspiciously. She was too well spoken to be a customer, too dressed up to be a police officer and too female to be one of the mobsters.

"The tattoo parlour isn't the only thing you guys work in," she stated, looking at a wall of prototypes. There were Asian characters, flowers, peace signs, animals, skulls...

The unmistakable click of the safety of a gun being flicked off penetrated the heavy silence. Nikita grimaced. She turned around to face the unsurprising wooden barrel of an old hunting rifle. Arms up in the air in an act of surrender, she simply flashed him a toothy smile and went on, "I'm looking for Karen Fawkes."

"Never heard of him," the man replied gruffly.

Nikita smiled wider, "Of course you have. If you really didn't, you'd have thought it was a woman. 'Karen', a popular girl's name. Or a very good alias...I've heard he comes here."

The man gripped his rifle tighter, "Who are you?"

"A client," she said, "For Fawkes, and you."

"You want a tattoo?" he said sceptically.

She nodded, "I have a rather ugly scar on my hip. From a cut about three years ago. I'm looking for something to cover it. Word on the street is that you're the best."

He looked her up and down, "You're from money. Why not just get some plastic surgery?"

Nikita feigned thought, "Well, they'd ask questions."

The man seemed to reassess her stand as he took the hint that she was tougher than she looked. The rifle was slowly lowered and put back in its place. He stepped around and towered over her, arms folded.

"What do you want?"

"This phoenix looks lovely," she said, pointing to one of the designs on the wall, "How much?"

He sniffed, "Fifty."

"Thirty," she countered quickly.

"Forty-five," he growled. "No lower."

Nikita considered, "And no questions?" He nodded. She smiled, "I have a bit of a problem too. There's an obstruction just under my skin. Not sure how deep it is."

The man reached out a hand, "Let me have a look."

As Nikita took off her coat, he noticed the bulge in the inner pocket. He'd been working with the mobsters and Karen Fawkes' gang long enough to know that not only was this woman someone, but she was a dangerous someone.

The scar was quite large, not particularly obvious either. He'd seen uglier. He felt around for the obstruction the woman spoke of and found it immediately. It was quite shallow on the skin, near the scar and he believed it might have been a piece of metal trapped inside from when the wound was fresh. As he explained the situation, the woman's mood seemed to lift.

"So you can get it out?" she asked.

He hesitated, "I know a guy."

"No questions?"

He smirked, "Lady, I don't know who you are or what you do. But if that scar is from what I think it's from, then you'd know that in my line of business – asking questions can get you killed."

"Rule number one, right?"

He shook his head, "Nah, rule number two. Number one is each man for himself."

Nikita looked at the phoenix again, "You sound just like a guy I know."

Taking out a ten dollar bill, she slapped it into his hand and put on her coat. The weight of the gun reassured her slightly and with a fleeting touch of her tracker, asked, "Thanks for the consultation. Where can I find Fawkes?"

The man held the bill up to the dusty light and seemed satisfied. "Two miles east from here, number seventeen opposite the State Coroner's Office. Ask for a glass of water in a plastic cup."

So if you care to find me,

Look to the Western Sky.

"Fawkes," Nikita smiled. The men around him shuffled uncomfortably. "Or should I say, Whitfield."

The muttering grew louder. Whitfield waved the men away and stepped forward, extending a hand. "Ah, Nikita, I was wondering when you'd come. What brings you here?"

She took the offered seat and glanced around at the backroom of the diner. Whitfield was what you'd call a Skinny Tough Guy. His small eyes bore holes into his victim's heads and were tiny windows into a sharp mind with a quickness for figures and math. A sadist like all mafia bosses, his cruel mouth was currently smoothed into a content smile. He knew who this woman was, and he owed her one. Only a fool would deny the debt that existed and being a businessman, he knew that such things were better paid than drawn out into long, unsavoury alliances where neither party cared very much for the other. Smarter to get it over and done with.

"Can I offer you a drink?"

Nikita politely declined. She had enough experience with Amanda to know that accepting liquid from a stranger was next to suicidal. "I've come to ask for a few things...and to offer some."

He raised his eyebrows. "The money you can have. I can get the North Koreans to make you as much as you need." She inclined her head in thanks, "I'd also like a few other things."

Acutely aware that his life had been at her mercy, he pushed aside the distaste that being selfless gave him and gestured for her to continue.

"You know people. I want a few items manufactured, with no double-dealing. Can you pave out a clean path for me?"

"What type of manufacturing are we talking about?"

She pulled out a journal. It had been resting in her apartment since her first few days as an agent. Inside, the pictures of explosive devices, transmitters, signal jammers and countless other designs held the future of her success. Whitfield flipped through and nodded in approval. He knew certain people and as long as she mentioned his name, there would be no funny business.

"I also need a safe house," she went on, "Somewhere in the city."

He thought for a moment, "Most of my properties are country manors, my dear. Since my 'death' two years ago, I've sold all my investments in the city and spent my time at Johnny Dohanny's."

"What about your old place? The loft you were living in when Division targeted you?"

"It's still there. Obviously. Your people had that place under surveillance, I couldn't very well sell it or they'd know I was still alive," he explained, "I don't go back there anymore. Too risky."

"So who lives there now?"

"To my knowledge, no one. A couple of chairs, carpets, furniture I didn't want. There's a piano too, it was too big for me to carry out of there. Why? You're not thinking of using _that_ as a safe house, are you?" he asked aghast, "They'll know if you do."

"Not if you get my devices made."

"When do you need it?"

"As soon as possible. Do you know a good arms man?" she asked.

He rifled through a mental list of names before settling on the most suitable one, "Yes. Henry. A bit of a fruitcake but he keeps his store classy and the hardware is always quality. But I thought you already had your dealers?"

She shook her head, "They were busted a few months ago. Scattered across the country; some in state prisons, others gone to down to Baltimore, Chicago, or up to Cleveland."

"Right," he mused, "Anything else?"

"Yes. I need you to go see Gustav."

"The forger?"

"Him," she agreed, "Things are changing for me. And once I get out, they'll do all they can to find me, including anyone I might have ever had contact with. That means that simply changing your name and selling you property in the city isn't going to be enough. You'll need a complete background wipe."

"You're breaking out?"

Nikita clammed up, "Like I said. It's time for change."

He smirked, "Sure thing. Extra protection by all means. But what's in it for you?"

She was silent for a while. When she finally looked up, he expected her to make more demands. To his infinite surprise she frowned and said sadly, "Redemption."

As someone told me lately,

Everyone deserves the chance to fly.

Nikita wandered into the restaurant opposite. The clean air and bright lights were such a contrast to the dingy backroom that she halted on the steps for a fraction of a second just to get her bearings. When she opened her eyes, she saw a figure sitting alone quickly turn away.

"Trust," she muttered, making her way towards Michael. "You've been following me?"

He lifted his head with an apologetic blink, "You could say that."

"Percy?" she said, sliding down opposite. "Or Amanda..."

"Neither," he said. She raised her eyebrows. "Operations. New case."

Nikita noticed the way he cut off the end of his words. It was like he was trying to keep himself in check. Ever since Amanda had suggested the three month extended cover, he'd been keeping his distance. So surprised that she hadn't been dropped on the spot for failing a mission, the added shock of being allowed some down time had sent her reeling.

_Percy touched the tips of his fingers together in deep thought. His three man audience waited in nervous anticipation. Michael scowling, Amanda blinking slowly and Nikita glaring aggressively as was her way whenever she couldn't think of anything to say._

"_The failure was on me sir," Michael pitched in, "There was no way for Nikita to get a clean shot on Tarsarov with my target and the civilians in the way."_

_The boss made a sour face and looked between his two best agents, "Sloppy. _Careless_. But you made the right decision. The target was more important than Gogol's pit-bull. For now. So did she give us her source?"_

_Here, Michael hesitated. He knew it was crunch time, and his head would be on the platter by the end of it. "Yes. Garcia says that she was involved with Agent Hyun Kim. He told her about Division and managed to decode part of the Op, enough to know the target and the coordinates."_

_Percy leant back in his chair and nodded slowly. "And where is she now?"_

"_I had a Russian asset clean her."_

"_And Kim?"_

_Michael froze. His own agent. "Awaiting your orders, sir."_

"_I'm disappointed in you Michael, I thought you trained them better than that. Nikita," Percy nodded in her direction, "you may leave. But fetch Roan, would you."_

_Michael remained in the room, awaiting the verdict. Percy sighed then nodded grimly, "It was a mistake, _you're_ mistake Amanda," he looked to the woman beside him, "In putting those two back together. Do you remember, Michael, how I once said that you would be the best team in the world? Hmmm...well, I'm thinking that I was wrong...I see now, in hindsight, that you are not so much a team as you are individuals. Together, you're much more liable to make mistakes – but apart, you're skill is unparalleled. So with this in mind, meaning no disrespect to either of your talents, I'm afraid I just can't afford to have you working together anymore. From now on, solo missions only. Clear?"_

_As a silent and thoughtful Michael left, Amanda raised her eyebrows. "That was rather blunt."_

_Percy shrugged, "You should have known what Michael does to Nikita – brings out all that softness in her."_

"_To be fair, the reporter did get in the way of her shot. Audio files of their Comm units confirm the timing. There was a 70% chance she would have missed."_

"_What do you suggest we do with them then, seeing as you're the specialist," he said with a patronising lilt._

"_For Michael, put him back on agent training. Only activate him for extractions – you know that's his strength. With Nikita... she's too volatile. We've tried her on Code Red. We've tried her on Code Green. But as soon as she gets back in touch with Michael, things go wrong. Unless you plan on cancelling one of them, the only option is to place her under inactive status."_

"_Inactive? Now why would I want her sitting around while there's work to be done?"_

"_You will need a replacement for Kim," Amanda reminded. "And I think that you have the perfect one right in front of you. Nikita is as fast and strong as any Reaper. She's naturally gifted with skills that allow her to build cover. Guarding a box would mean limited killing, which is a bonus."_

_Percy pulled together his eyebrows, "You think we should train Nikita to be a Guardian..."_

"_She has the makings. If we place her under extended cover we could monitor her progress. I predict that unlike many other agents, she won't feel the need to connect," Amanda continued to explain at the man's disbelieving scoff, "You see. Her feelings lie with Michael. While he lives and works for Division, she won't be tempted off by other men. Her one weakness can become our greatest weapon. It may just turn her into the best Guardian you could hope for."_

_Unable to think of a better way to use her at that moment, he agreed. "But if this comes back to bite us...Well, until she's well and truly trained – and you're _certain_ she's fit for the job – I still need someone to fill in for Kim. We can't have an unguarded box, now can we? Who would you recommend?"_

"_Janson," Amanda replied directly, having already foreseen the question._

"_If you're right about Nikita, I'll put her on one of the others," Percy said as Roan walked in, "The engineer is making me an extra three. The more the merrier!"_

_Amanda's heart sank at the thought of more black boxes to destroy. Oversight wasn't going to be happy._

"_Roan, I need you to clean Kim in Montreal. And also, there's this man, Owen Eliot," Percy passed a file across the desk, "He's looking very promising. Start him up on Reaper training."_

Nikita had spent her first month of cover trying to remember what people did in their spare time. Unused to the general public, the majority of her day had been indoors. But then, feeling stupid for wasting such freedom, she'd decided to mingle. With neighbours, waiters, shop keepers, mothers at the supermarkets, drug dealers on the streets, taxi drivers – everyone.

She'd met Daniel.

"_Hello?" said a voice on the opposite end of the receiver._

_She looked around, at the dim room with the case of weapons on the floor beside her. A dark blue dress caught her eye. She'd never worn it before and found the sudden urge to try it on. Throwing caution to the winds, she cleared her throat and asked, "Are you free tonight?"_

"_I had a date with my television, actually," he joked._

_She smiled, "I'm sure she can wait. Meet me at that place around the corner?"_

"_Los __Jugadors__? That's a bit posh," Daniel teased._

"_It'll be my treat."_

"_No no no," he jumped in, "What kind of man do you think I am, I'll pay."_

_She smiled. After a beat, he spoke up again, this time quietly, almost shy, "Is this a date?"_

"_If you want it to be," she held her breath._

"_Yeah...yeah, I guess I do," he laughed nervously, "Sorry Nikita, it's been awhile. I'm a little rusty."_

_She grinned, "Oh, you have no idea. I completely understand. And...call me Nikki."_

Daniel, the bartender, who she told herself was just for her cover. But after the constant covert activities, the constant looking over her shoulder and questioning, forever questioning the reasons she killed and killed – Daniel was like desert rain.

Refreshing, unexpected, welcome.

He made her smile. He had endless stories of his trips around the world and though she could match his adventures with her own, for once, she didn't feel the need. She was always, _always_ trying to get the upper hand. At Division. On missions. With Michael. But with Daniel, she was content to let him fill her head full of new stories and new feelings. He complained about the public transit system and the cost of petrol. She smiled, indulged his whines and fantasised about his world.

The normal world.

He ordered take out because he couldn't cook and enjoyed sleeping in on a Sunday. His best friends were a married couple off on their Honeymoon and his father still cherished the hope that he'd drop his 'vagrant ways' and take over the family business. Nikita soaked up his life. Hearing his day to day troubles, teasing him about taking out the trash and dreaming of a white picket fence – an all-consuming obsession with being normal.

He made her question Division even more. He fuelled her need to get out.

"You've been reactivated. And your first job is with a man called Voss. We need intel on his suppliers. Amanda wants a debriefing of your extended cover and then head over to logistics," Michael said across the booth.

With an almost angry glare at him, she nodded and reached for her car keys. _Just two more months...two more months until I leave with Daniel...start a new life...just two months..._

Some women love only what they can hold in their arms;

Others, only what they can't. ~Mignon McLaughlin

Amanda sat rigidly in her chair, watching and re-watching the surveillance tapes. She was beyond furious. She did not, could not, have predicted the disastrous turn of events. Who was this Daniel fellow? Where did he come from and why did he matter? Oversight had been impatient for Nikita to start Guardian training, or even better if Amanda could convince Percy that she was good enough not to need any training at all. They wanted a black box and they would stop short of nothing to get it. A list of cryptographers were already lined up to work on the encryption.

And Percy too, how would she explain Nikita's new beau when she'd been the one to confidently state that Michael's existence would stave off any cravings for human contact? She'd believed it too, she'd been so certain that her feelings for Michael would outweigh any that she might develop with mere civilians. Boring civilians. Weak men.

Her phone rang. She could guess who it would be. "Senator."

"_Amanda, have you decided on your course of action yet?"_

"Daniel is a temporary distraction," she found herself saying with surprising calm, "I will assert my authority and he will be taken care of."

"_I hope that's the case. You know we want possession of a box before Percy makes three more. Time if of the essence here."_

The line went dead.

Amanda sat back and told herself to breath. Everything she had ever wanted was so close. There was only one more obstacle. The date on the screen was two months prior.

"_Goodnight Nikita," he said softly._

"_Goodnight Daniel," she replied, reaching up on her toes to peck him on the cheek._

Amanda furrowed her brow in disgust and skipped forward several days. It was Daniel's apartment, they were in bed in the early hours of the morning.

"_So what do you do exactly," he asked, stroking her hair, "For the airline I mean."_

"_I'm a consultant."_

"_Which means you...?"_

"_It means I work a big, corrupt company," she joked lightly, "figuring out creative ways to cheat honest Americans out of their money with gimmicks."_

_He laughed, "That's a bit jaded and cynical."_

_She snuggled deeper into his chest, giggling, "Eh...reality, my love."_

Many more days later, another conversation jumped out at her.

"_Daniel, I need to be honest about something," Nikita was saying, her breathing coming off shallow and broken. A piece of bed sheet was being wrapped around her fingers and she stared at a far off spot on the wall. Her partner looked up, worry lining his round face, hands coming up to rub her shoulders._

"_What's wrong?"_

_She looked at him with eyes full of tears, "I'm not who you think I am."_

_Daniel placed a small kiss on her forehead and pulled her towards him. She allowed herself to cry silently into his neck. He shushed her, anxious, confused, "There's nothing that you could say that would change the way I feel."_

_She pulled away from him, "No. That's what you think but once I tell you..."_

"_Is it your job?"_

_Nikita looked up, the back of her hand coming up and wiping at her eyes, "Yes."_

"_Then give it up," he cried in earnest, "You know I can provide for both of us. I'll work double shifts and Sundays. It's fine."_

"_I couldn't let you do that," she sighed, falling back onto the mattress again, "Just forget it...don't worry about me."_

Three weeks after that day, the scene that always made Amanda's pristine exterior of control slip, came into focus. The date was the 13th of May, 11am on the Saturday morning. The midday sun streamed through the windows and there was a tinge of surrealism that surrounded it. She saw the small black box, the silver ring, the eternal promise of life and love that passed between their two eyes. It was beautiful. It was dangerous. It was maddening.

One tiny piece of jewellery and a mediocre man could threaten to destroy the years of work she had put into her student. _Her_ object. _Her_ creature.

Leaping to her feet, she stormed into Percy's office, he looked up curiously. Pulling herself to full height, utilising every ounce of superiority she could find, she placed the disk of recordings on his desk. "I'm asking permission to eliminate Daniel Monroe. Please watch these at your earliest convenience. I can assure you that Nikita will be put back on track, once we remind her who's really in charge."

Too long I've been afraid of losing love,

I guess I've lost.

Well if that's love,

It comes as much too high a cost.

The lights were what first woke her. They broke through the muffled thoughts still lingering on the edge of her consciousness and slowly pulled her back to reality. She fluttered her eyes weakly, not quite wanting the dreams to end. Not wanting to face what lay ahead. The vibrating was the final tug that jerked her back to the land of the living. Groggily, she lifted her arm out from under the covers. The cold brought Goosebumps to her skin almost immediately and she shivered. The name on the phone registered 'Michael'. She sighed, about to flip it open when a strong arm pulled her back.

"Who's calling at this time of day?" came a husky voice. Nikita relaxed into the broad chest and allowed Daniel to pull the blankets over them again. She closed her eyes for a few moments, feeling him trail kisses down her neck and shoulders. The vibrating stopped and she felt him smile against her skin, "See? Now go back to sleep."

"I can't," she said, reaching out for the phone again. He wrapped her in his embrace and she indulged herself a little longer.

"Why?" he whispered. She grinned, flipping him over with precise skill, she flattened herself against his chest and nipped at his bottom lip.

"Because you're so distracting."

He laughed, "Ditto," a mischievous spark came to his eyes, "Fine then, forget sleeping. I have another idea on how we can spend the morning..."

She let him run his hands through her hair. The adoration, the complete trust, shone from his face and as the early morning rays painted the room, she could think of no more perfect figure in the whole world. As he kissed her, she let herself sink into him. The softness of his stomach cushioned her, a comfortable layer built up from a lifetime of chocolate and nightly takeout. The thought made her happy, somehow. Further proof that he was everything Division was not. As he touch became more urgent, thoughts of her job flew out of her mind. His legs wrapped around her and their already meagre items of clothing were ripped off. He ran a finger up her thigh and –

The phone started to vibrate again. Nikita sat up like someone had jammed a rod up her spine. Daniel lay where he was and admired the view. She grabbed his roaming fingers and gave them a soft kiss.

"Sorry hun, I have to get this," she said quietly. Michael's name flashed again, like some irritating alarm sent to remind her that she was living the dream. _He's just my cover_, she thought to herself, wrapping a blanket around her middle and striding towards the bathroom. "_What_?"

"Morning sunshine," Michael's gruff tones gyrated against her ear. "Sleep well?"

"Lovely, thanks," she replied just as sarcastic.

"Hate to be the bringer of bad news but you're needed in Operations," he stated.

She frowned into the mirror and lowered her voice, "Joy. When?"

Michael laughed humourlessly, "Half an hour ago."

Some things I cannot change,

But til I try I'll never know.

"Haase!" Percy barked into the phone. The Engineer's timid voice peeped back in reply. "Once you've finished making a stronger encryption on the black boxes, so that agents _cannot_ break them, I'd be grateful if you could look at your new assignment."

"_Of course...anything you...you...wish."_

"Get in touch with our Medical team. I want this new integrated brain circuit ready before the next UN conference, understood? Good. And if you could lift the deadline for my last three boxes up a few months while you're at it – then that would be swell."

And nobody in all of Oz,

No Wizard that there is or was,

Is ever gonna bring me down...

* * *

><p><strong>Lyrics from "Defying Gravity" by Stephen Schwartz from Wicked The Musical. Exams nearly flattened me but I'm finally writing again, it's taken awhile to get back in the groove but here you go. A lot has happened in this chapter...the end is nigh! I've been looking forward to so many of the scenes here that it's uber exciting to write them...<strong>

**So as you know, Henry is the weapons dealer Nikki buys the sniper from in episode **_**2.0.**_** Gustav is our trusty forger friend. I tried to explain the strange mountain of chairs in Nikita's loft and the broken piano. Johaan Haase is the name I gave the Engineer. The journal from one of the first few chapters of this story makes a return! Janson (the Guardian who suffers from Regiment withdrawal in the deleted scenes) replaces Kim. And of course, Owen ends up replacing Janson...**

**Oh, and two incontinuities: 1. Kayseri Stadium is in Ankara according to the show but in real life, it isn't...so...yeah. 2. In **_**Coup de Grace**_**, Nikita says to Stephen that she's never failed an Op "I never received one of those demerits but I hear they suck" but then in **_**Phoenix**_** she tells Ari that she didn't go through with her assignment to kill him because his son was there. So I tried to explain it by making the journalist cross paths with Nikita so the failure was forgiven. Hope that makes sense =]**


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